


Thieves of Love: The Journey

by Borath, harinezumiko



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Burns, Emotional Constipation, Fanon, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Makeover, Multi, Poor Life Choices, Unresolved Sexual Tension, inappropriate use of shadow magic, verging on dub-con but only a kiss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-26
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-23 11:10:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16157813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Borath/pseuds/Borath, https://archiveofourown.org/users/harinezumiko/pseuds/harinezumiko
Summary: Bakura, needing to find a non-criminal way to make ends meet, teams up with Kaiba, Yami and Malik. With their unique rock sound, they are set to take Domino City by storm... if they can settle their "creative differences"!





	1. Domino Rock City

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to our sandbox of cracky joy. We will be intentionally committing a whole host of fandom sins in this fic (character bashing, OOCness, gratuitous Japanese, mixing dub and sub...) but we hope you'll take it as it's meant - affectionately. There'll be a bunch of pairings (including some GX boys later), terrible fashion sense, sex, drugs, and rock'n'roll. We're having a whale of a time writing this and we hope you enjoy reading.

Bakura had painted the garage black in preparation so that there would be no illusions as to what kind of music his band would be playing.  He hadn't included Ryou in this colour scheming, but felt it a very mild retaliation to being told that he had to earn his own food and rent from now on.  With his career options severely limited by legality (Condition 1 of having somewhere to live) and skillset ('Imprisoned in the Ra-forsaken Ring' didn't take up much CV space, despite how many years it covered), he'd decided to pursue something that he'd at least look good doing.  After six months of religious practice with his new guitar (Ryou didn't need *all* those savings from his dead mother), Bakura decided he was ready to form his band and, inevitably, take the world by storm.

He'd put an ad in the back of several of the music magazines that left inkstains upon reading, shying away from the local newspaper so that one of Ryou's Bieber-loving friends wouldn't catch wind of his new career.  _Thieves of Love_ was having auditions whilst Ryou was at university, and he'd turned the garage and driveway into a stage-come-barbecue for the day.  It had been ridiculously easy to relocate a set of drums from the shop across town (though he'd had to go back a month later because they hadn't had the colour he wanted), in addition to amps, microphones and a small collection of pretty guitars.  The Thief King had moved into the digital age seamlessly, and now prodded meat on the barbecue whilst he waited.  The fee for subjecting him to auditory Hell with only a slim chance of finding musical genius was meat and beer, and he was anticipating a good turnout.

Running his hands through his hair as he watched the burgers sizzle, wondering again if he should have taken that bandanna after all, he turned at the sound of an engine approaching.  The dark, nondescript car slowed to a stop at the end of the driveway, and Bakura took a sip of warm bourbon as he watched.  When the door finally opened, he grunted a laugh.  "You have got to be kidding me."

A long, thin, black-booted leg exited the car, followed in due course by the rest of the body, revealing a tall brunette with bangs too long in the front.  In his right hand he wielded like a sword his own customised pair of drumsticks, the brushed-chrome shaft lightly studded for grip, the weight balanced by the mathematically precise taper of the hickory wood to its triangular tip.  The sticks felt so good in Kaiba’s hands that he’d ordered a hundred identical pairs to be made lest they warp or splinter under heavy use.

Kaiba glanced around, taking in the surroundings.  Someone had evidently gone to some small effort.  The smell of meat drifted over, drawing Kaiba’s attention to the white-haired freak behind the BBQ.  “Thought you were dead,” he muttered, but not wanting to push the issue in case of receiving another thorough grounding in ancient Egyptian history that he would rather do without.

He strode his determined way over to the barbecue, fixing Bakura with a cold blue gaze.  “I’m here for the auditions,” he growled, as if affronted at being asked to prove his worth.  He folded his arms, tapping the drumsticks against a bicep impatiently.  Kaiba hadn’t initially wanted to drum.  He’d had his heart set on being center stage: singing, lead guitar, or perhaps both.  He was multi-talented after all.  No-one paid attention to the guy on the stool at the back, except to make jokes about the use of drool as a spirit level.  But somehow Mokuba had managed to convince him that was best, if he did want to return to KaibaCorp after his sabbatical was over.  (Kaiba called it a sabbatical; Mokuba, spades being spades, called it a mid-life crisis.)

Bakura eyed the lanky form, managing through sheer force of habit and will to look down his nose at the notably taller man.  The novelty of the situation alone kept his initial reaction in check.  Kaiba in a rock band sounded like a one way ticket to un-fun off the bat, but the more he thought about it, the more appealing the notion became.  Money, for a start.  Kaiba had lots of it for touring buses, jets, prostitutes and drugs; not to mentioned his obsessive-compulsiveness to be the best at anything and everything he set his mind to.  The special effects would be like being in the Shadow Realm all over again.  Only with more groupies.

Finally, he jerked his head towards the black and silver drum set, the edges of the cymbals honed razor-sharp just because he could.  “Go wail - pretend it’s the Pharoah’s face, if it helps,” he drawled, swaggering over to the amps and toeing them on before sitting atop with his bourbon and burger.  “I must say, Kaiba, I’d have thought this sort of ‘frivolity’ was beneath you, or is this your horizontal slide from making monsters child-friendly?”

“Whereas of course, it’s a natural progression from tomb-robbing and homicide.”  Kaiba whirled the seat of the stool around until it reached an acceptable height for his frame, seating himself and giving the bass pedal a couple of taps to test the spring tension.  Seeing no need to waste time on further pleasantries, he broke into a practiced routine: starting with a short fill, before moving into a measured regular beat to showcase his precision timing, then into faster fills and double bass beats.  He finished with a blistering solo that defied all regular time signatures and musical convention before sitting back and waiting for the adulation which was surely his due.

Silence for several seconds as Bakura regarded him with folded arms, expression cool.  Finally, he grunted.  “And I thought you were boring.”  It was as close to a compliment as he would ever give.  Trekking back to the barbecue, he reached into the cooler positioned behind and tossed one of the beer cans across to Kaiba: You’re in.   “So.  Unless you’ve got Wayne Coyne trussed up in the boot, we’re still in need of a third.  At least.”  A smirk despite himself as he thought back to Malik.

Kaiba accepted the beer with a nod, briefly passing the chilled can over his forehead as beads of sweat were beginning to mat his hair to it.  “Did you have many replies to the ad?  You listed some exotic influences.”  The ring-pull released with a satisfying fwish.  Kaiba drained half the can before leaving the kit and passing one of the multitude of guitars over to Bakura atop his amplifier throne.  The challenge was clear: Show me what _you_ can do.

Bakura held Kaiba’s stare as the instrument was passed to him, making minute and relatively pointless adjustments that were more fetishised handling than tuning.  After a few suspenseful plucks, he laid his callouses across the strings with the speed and dexterity of one experienced in bending delicate mechanisms to his will.  Larceny had a great deal of transferable skills to shredding a guitar, it had turned out, his fingers moving as independently of one another as his mortal-coil ligaments would allow and his ears, tuned to the quietest rumble of a trap set off, striking and following every note in crescendo. 

He’d spent so many hours practicing that Ryou had been completely unbruised for the better half of a year, and Malik had started putting his picture on milk cartons.  How his former lover had achieved this, he wasn’t entirely sure, but he suspected it had something to do with a Pritt stick, painstaking hours and a broken security camera in the shop down the road.  The label he’d peeled off and shown Ryou this morning had had a particularly crude pornographic doodle etched in red (Malik probably thought ‘that’ was the most romantic medium) on the back.

To Kaiba’s query, and speaking as if he hadn’t just performed an impromptu solo that had made his own toes curl, Bakura shrugged fractionally.  “There’s just you, so far.  I have Malik beseeching for bass, but I’m willing to wait for something new to catch my attention.”

“Hmm,” Kaiba’s non-committal noise covered how impressed he was by the thief’s fretboard exertions.  Satisfied with the band’s musical ability so far, he sat on the edge of the stage, one knee pulled up and lounging with the beer.  He’d already tested his own staff as potential bandmates, but Isono’s karaoke - despite being flamboyantly energetic - had left much to be desired.  “I don’t know who to suggest.  That I can stand to spend time with, anyway.”  The thought of being trapped on a tourbus with the mutt Jounouchi was anathema to him.  The mute assertion that Kaiba could, perhaps, be forced under certain conditions to associate with Bakura was left to hang in the warm air.

Bakura didn’t volunteer the fact that his social circle was either dead, certifiable or a sworn enemy.  It seemed implicit.  “Mai’s chest’s an option,” he threw out after a long silence, then sat up a little on the amps when he heard the distinctive, skin-crawling jingle of a bicycle bell being rung.  The ‘dancer’ of the delusional group was descending.  “How in Ra’s name did she find out about this?”

“Oh god, no.  Anything but that.”  Kaiba stared balefully down at the perky cheerleader.  She had apparently dyed her hair black for the occasion, with a couple of hot pink streaks in her angular bangs.

Anzu parked her bike neatly at the bottom of the driveway, leaning against the gatepost.  She balked a little at the malevolent glares she was getting from the assembled players.  “Pull yourself together, girl,” she told herself.  “You’re a showstopper, remember?”  She was used to shows and auditions by now.  Why should this one be any different?

IPod and speakers rescued from the bicycle’s handlebar basket, the wannabe rock chick strutted towards the stage, head held high.  She set the equipment down at the edge of the stage, speakers angled towards her, proxy monitors.  “May I start?”  She aimed her sweetest, most professional smile at the reluctant audience of two.

“No,” Kaiba stated flatly.  Anzu gamely took the refusal as sarcasm and pressed play.  The squeal of violins indicated that she had thought the most appropriate choice to audition for a rock band was Britney Spears.  Anzu bobbed about on her platform sandals, warming up as she waited for the vocal part to begin.

Her singing was utterly pedestrian, in Kaiba’s opinion.  She could hit the notes, but so could any girl in a karaoke bar.  The way she delivered the lyrics was devoid of any sense of danger or lust, and the odd way she kept throwing her arms around while hopping from foot to foot reminded him less of a dance and more of someone desperately in need of the toilet.  Any sex appeal the song might once have had was rendered utterly powerless by the smiling winks she kept giving him, more suited to a lounge act, preferably situated very far from Kaiba.  Like Neptune.

Kaiba looked at Bakura to check he was suffering just as much before swinging a leg round, dashing the iPod off the stage.  Anzu stared at him, shocked.

“I think we’ve heard enough.”  Kaiba couldn’t even muster up a decent smirk.

Bakura cocked his head a little, the most he’d moved in the last soul-crushing minute (and he knew from soul crushing), to deliver his verdict.  “There’s a position open for my ashtray that I think you’d be *perfect* for,” he smiled, purring the emphasis.

“Smoking’s bad for you.  You should take care of that body,” Anzu started, before realising the slight.  She pouted, a storm in her eyes, but a witty comeback eluded her.  She jumped off the stage, picking up the smashed iPod and running down the driveway.  The bicycle bell rang furiously as she headed off to see Yugi.  He’d comfort her.  And she couldn’t let her black leather outfit go to waste.

“Knew I should have killed her.  Can’t see why Malik didn’t toss her rainbow-sprouting body off the bloody blimp when he had the chance,” the former Ring spirit muttered, necking another mouthful of bourbon and scratching a hand through his hair.  Forgoing the fire of the barbecue entirely, Bakura took up a fistful of raw quarter-pounder from the pack and swallowed it with very little chewing.  It was his equivalent of comfort eating, and his new mortal digestive system *would* learn to like it.  Ryou had stopped vomiting eventually.

“I don’t know why I didn’t myself,” Kaiba snorted.  A few times he’d caught himself hoping the entire Scooby gang would just have been blown over the side.  Only about half the finalists had been interesting to him as it was.  Kaiba headed for the barbecue to check on the slightly more edible food.  A little blackened on one side, but cooked at least.  He tonged the burgers onto the warming rack, helping himself to one.

The second Bakura caught sight of Yami’s very distinctive silhouette approaching, he shot Kaiba a look through his bangs that could topple Cairo.  There was no mistaking the single-minded intent to win in Yami’s stride.  That and he’d put on, somehow, even more kohl.

“This is your fault.  Somehow, this is your fault.  These cretins can’t have just stumbled upon my ad.  They haven’t got the collective imagination, let alone personality.”  Bakura arched a brow, back straightening with slit-eyed accusation.  “You issued a challenge, didn’t you?  You’re going to design some stupid rock band gaming system and hound anyone with a scrap of skill into playing you so that you can beat them.  There is no other explanation for why the Pharaoh -” he stabbed one demonstrative finger, flecked with raw meat, “is trying out for _Thieves of Love_.”

“You can’t pin this one on me,” Kaiba shot back icily.  This was supposed to be his escape from the daily pressures of running a megacorporation, something based on teamwork and almost entirely non-competitive - apart from good-natured rivalry over the amount of groupies you could fit in your hotel room, or the number of beers you could drink before needing to piss.  “Why did you call the band that anyway?  It’s a risible name.  I would have thought something like _Blood-rusted Nails_ would have been more your style.”  He watched closely as Yami approached, drawn as ever to his confidence and directness.  It must have been Mokuba, he thought.  For whatever reason, his little brother liked the Pharoah, and since Kaiba had begrudgingly admitted that perhaps he maybe did consider Yami a friend Mokuba had been trying to get the two in the same room.  Apparently friends should want to actually spend time with each other.  Kaiba snorted at the idea of himself and Yami “just hanging out”, as Mokuba put it.

The Pharaoh was a paradox in his ability to bluff with absolutely assuredness whilst being utterly incapable of masking surprise, giving as much away in a full-body jerk as in the widening of his eyes.  It was a small response that he showed now towards Kaiba’s presence, but a response all the same.

“Kaiba? What are you doing here?”  The question came out without any inflection of suspicion - just pure astonishment.  Yami saw the drumsticks, but decided that the question still stood.

Bakura came to stand almost on the Pharaoh’s toes, the barest flicker of Shadow magic pulling out the bottom of his jacket so that it flared dramatically.  “Kaiba’s had a new calling.  What’s your excuse?”

Yami’s mouth opened fractionally with a retort, but the remark died on his tongue and he glanced away.  He was here for much the same reason that he suspected Bakura was - they were physical presences in this world, now, no longer slave to the Millennium Items or bound to their Hikaris.  With the Shadow Games over in every sense and their occupancy as spirits finished, they had to find a new purpose in their lives.  Not to mention a means to pay the rent.

“Exploring a possibility, Bakura, much as I believe you are also doing,” he replied at last, arching a brow to indicate the other’s guitar.

A smirk.  “No, Pharaoh.  I’m doing this because I make it look good.  You’re going to have to do better than that, however, to earn your place as a Thief of Love.”

Yami frowned a little, trying to work out if that was Bakura’s backwards way of saying he was attractive, before shaking the thought off and holding up a CD.  “I can’t play an instrument.”

The admission made Bakura grin outright, snatching the silver disc away and moving to the player tucked behind the amps.  He sat atop them and clicked the button with his heel, bourbon held out in challenge.  His stance faltered a bit when the same damn violins came out, a shudder running across his shoulders.  “On the stage.  I want a good view of every cringing moment.”

Yami did as he was bid, standing perfectly still with closed eyes whilst intro played out, as if composing some internal force.  When the lyrics finally came, he did not attempt to mimic the recorded voice but sang with it, in a lower and richer pitch.  His cultured accent lilted over the words, bringing forth qualities in the song that Anzu had outright murdered only minutes ago.

It was mesmerizing, Kaiba found.  Those velvet tones, the same he’d heard his own judgement delivered in, the same he’d later heard talking him down from his path of self-destruction, bending and weaving with the tune.  It felt intensely personal, like the lyrics were aimed just at him.

Kaiba found the old competitive spirit rising within him, as it always did in Yami’s intoxicating presence.  A drummer’s role was to keep the beat, a role subservient to the glory of the lead singer.  With Yami on vocals, would Kaiba be able to rein in the impulse to fight, to strike the mylar skins harder and faster in hopes of surpassing him?  He wasn’t sure.  But it promised to be exhilarating to find out.

Kaiba consciously reset his jawline to stoic.  It wouldn’t do to have Yami finish the song and find his rival staring at him in slack-jawed amazement.  He watched the rest of the performance in silence, taking in the musical cadences and dynamic nuances, following Yami’s every small motion.  He wondered, as so many times before, how such a small frame could exude so much charisma and... _stage presence_.  That was it.  He had to be their singer.

Experimenting, Bakura held the bottle up so that the bourbon covered Yami’s head and neck, anonymizing the undulating body shifting with the thick fluidity of melted metal.  Realising that he’d been sucking his tongue as these thoughts traipsed through his head, Bakura bit the tip hard enough to cut them off and then agitated the wound with a mouthful of bourbon.  It was a sickly thing to realise that when the Pharaoh wasn’t kicking his DM arse, spouting about ‘right’ or standing next to Anzu, he was actually quite... 

More bourbon.  Lots more bourbon.

As the song finished, Kaiba turned to Bakura, blue eyes uncompromisingly commanding.  “We must have him,” he growled, adding defensively: “You saw that.”

Not missing the flush that momentarily graced the CEO’s cheekbones, Bakura moved to stand beneath the stage directly in front of Yami. They both stood with matching feet-apart, folded arm stances, silently assessing one another.  Finally, he grunted, “fine: you’re our lead on two conditions.”  Yami nodded, though cautiously.  “You’re not a child king anymore and lead singer doesn’t mean ‘in charge’.  You defer to me.” 

“Only on band matters,” Yami interjected quickly.

Bakura waved him off.  “Yes, fine.  Second condition: Kaiba’s in charge of your wardrobe.”

Yami blinked at that, arms dropping to his sides as he looked between the thief king and his old rival.  “What?  I’m not some doll for-”

“Grudging as I am to acknowledge two of Kaiba’s positive attributes in the same hour, he does have infinitely more fashion sense than you,” Bakura explained, giving the stage his back as he walked back to Kaiba and the amps.  The grin he slid the taller man conveyed his secondary motivation for handing Yami over to him to play dress up: sheer personal entertainment.

Kaiba’s thin lips curled into a smirk.  He could have fun with this one.  The school uniform look might have worked for AC/DC but it wouldn’t cut it for the Thieves.  Yami really needed to let go of high school already.  “Say I get to restyle his hair, too,” he rejoined, letting the contemptuous tone of his voice mask the appreciative way he looked Yami over from the tri-coloured spikes to studded black boots.  He looked good in leather trousers, it had to be said.

Bakura, now returned to his seat atop the throne of amps, replied, “Yes, fine.  Pedicure as well, if you’re that invested.”

Skirting that issue for now, Kaiba addressed the pharoah directly.  “You do know more than teen girl-pop, I assume?”  As interesting as Yami’s rendition had been, Kaiba was protective of his credibility.  Which was something he probably should have thought about before leaving his multi-million-yen company to join a rock band.


	2. That’ll Be The Day

Ryou had cut through central Domino on the way home from university to pick up groceries.  Living with Bakura there were always lumps of unidentifiable meat in the freezer that made him feel slightly queasy, so he preferred to eat fresh.  The backpack containing his five-a-day bumped reassuringly against his back as he cycled home.

The smell of burned meat assailed Ryou’s nostrils as he approached the house where the two Bakuras lived.  Shock momentarily hit him at the sight of the carnage in the driveway, the garage apparently smoke-blackened.  Leaving his bike at the entrance and running up the driveway, he was so relieved to discover the house hadn’t actually burnt down that he almost forgave Bakura for painting the garage without his permission.

He tentatively opened the door, counting his blessings when no projectiles came his way.  Having their own bodies had been a relief at first until Ryou had realised it was still just as easy for Bakura to hurt him.  He could have asked Bakura to move out, sure, and no doubt Bakura would have been glad to be rid of his frail landlord, but Ryou still clung on to some faint hope that contact with him might eventually turn Bakura into a more functional member of society.  He wasn’t about to go pushing the parasite onto someone who didn’t know what they were dealing with.

Ryou headed for the kitchen to unpack the groceries, calling to his housemate as he did so.  “Bakura?  What’s all that stuff in the driveway?”

A thunderous clatter down the stairs preceded the former Ring spirit’s arrival, involuntarily accelerated by the rest of the bottle of bourbon he’d  polished off since Kaiba and Yami had left.  Landing on his feet, he decided to continue in form by power-sliding on his knees into the kitchen and skid to a stop at his Hikari’s feet.  The grin faltered as his knees and shins reminded him that he had puny mortal skin now, and it appreciated neither forceful impacts nor heavy friction.

Staying on the floor for now, Bakura duplicated his earlier performance on an air guitar, hoping that Ryou could at the very least imagine a fraction of the awesomeness.  “Kaiba and the idiot Pharaoh want to be in a band with me.  We’re going to play gigs and get rent money.”  The grocery bag caught his attention.  “Did you get my Bacon Tasties?  And bourbon. We’re out of bourbon.”

Ryou blinked, trying to assimilate the facts, and to reconcile them with his image of the maniacal spirit.  Deciding to deal with the easy part first, he passed the snacks to Bakura, crouching to meet his eye level.  He recoiled slightly from the sickly sweet fumes on Bakura’s breath.  “We weren’t out of bourbon this morning.  Did you drink the entire bottle?”  The question didn’t need to be more than rhetorical, so Ryou continued.  “You formed a band?  I didn’t know you could play anything.”  He kept his voice low and quiet in an effort to keep Bakura calm.  Maybe this was some kind of alcohol-fuelled hallucination.  Kaiba surely didn’t need rent money, for starters.

Bakura took his Bacon Tasties against his chest and took a possessive handful, folding the top of the bag over for later.  The crisps were pure chemical - imitating bacon in smell and taste.  They were becoming a staple part of his diet.  “I do have *other* skills,” he snarked with a squint, making a slow attempt to stand up.  “There’s a reason you haven’t been in the Emergency room since last summer.”  He neglected to elaborate that the reason he’d learnt to play the guitar (well) without Ryou hearing was that he’d been practicing in a small pocket of the Shadow Realm that he’d been keeping open in the corner of his room.  It reminded him of a simpler time, but he doubted his Hikari would see the snarling black maw in the closet that way.

Setting the bag aside, he began ticking off on his fingers.  “I’m lead guitar, Kaiba’s on drums having some sort of breakdown, Mokuba’s a roadie, and Yami is our singing bitch doll.”  He beamed a grin at Ryou, genuinely pleased at what he’d accomplished today.  He’d be in a jacuzzi on a private jet with his own camels in no time.  “I’d invite you to try-out, but you’re not cool enough to be a Thief.”

“Well, that sounds wonderful,” Ryou smiled nervously, his tone still doubtful.  He sat cross-legged to get more comfortable.  He wanted to see the good in Bakura, he really did, but forefront in his memories were all the times Bakura had tricked him into doing things that ended up hurting his friends.  “You’re not planning on electrocuting Yami with the microphone or anything, are you?”  He cast his eyes down, watched his own fingers fiddling with his shirt cuff.

Oblivious to his Hikari’s discomfort (indeed, immune to it from over-exposure), Bakura rolled one shoulder in a shrug.  “It’s not an immediate plan - he’s actually good.”  When Ryou made no comment, he gazed down at his bowed head before scuffing his foot a little.  He knew he’d had too much alcohol for the day when he started feeling like this; wondering why Ryou was still around and politely keeping him even after the obligation of body-sharing had passed.  Perhaps he was just getting sentimental in his old age, or his new mortal self was a maudlin drunk.

Picking up the bag of crisps without actually taking any, he inspected his nails on his left hand.  He needed to steal some black nail polish as soon as possible.  “We’ve got our first gig on Thursday next week, over in Theo.  I’m not giving you a ride or anything, and you have to buy your own ticket, and you can’t come backstage, but you could, maybe, come if you wanted.”  He shoved the hand he’d been inspecting into his pocket nonchalantly.  “The Pharaoh’s twit Hikari will probably be there.”

“Yugi’s going?” Ryou fidgeted.  He wasn’t used to this kind of treatment from his former tormentor; maybe this band thing was going to be good for Bakura.  He vowed to be supportive, and to stick as closely to Bakura as possible to make sure he didn’t murder the front row in a fit of pique if the Thieves didn’t get a good reception.  “I’d love to come.  Perhaps if it goes well, I could work on your merch stall or something.”  Not wishing to push his luck further with his drunken housemate, Ryou stood. “I’m going up to my room now,” he announced, gently squeezing Bakura’s shoulder.  It was partly a reward for a day spent productively, and partly to check that Bakura wouldn’t fall over and would be capable of looking after himself for the rest of the evening.

Ryou lay on his bed, propped up on his elbows, texting furiously.  Yugi had to know what was going on.  His relationship with Yami was something to be envied, the two were so close.  Ryou’s long white hair flopped forward, hiding his face.

            Did you hear about this band thing? (@_@)

Yugi replied almost immediately.

            the thieves of love? (n_n) isnt it great? ♪┏(・o･)┛♪┗ ( ･o･) ┓♪┗ (･o･ ) ┓♪┏(･o･)┛♪

            So it’s true...  Are you going on Thursday?

            ★。、:*:。.:*:・'゜☆。.:*:・'゜i wouldnt miss it! \\(*O*)/ see you there? ★。、:*:。.:*:・'゜☆。.:*:・'゜

            Yes.  Theo?  Is that the gay club?  Do we have to wear dresses?

            not unless you want to (≧∇≦)/

            Sorry (n///n)

            anyway i have to go yamis here and we need sleep ( L_____L ) ~zzz night ryou (^3^)-☆chu!!

            Goodnight Yugi.

Ryou put the cellphone to one side, sighing.  Surely it was far too early to be going to bed.

Downstairs, Bakura had slid back down to the floor of the kitchen and was leaning against the cupboards with the crisp bag bunched in one fist.  He was used to Ryou fleeing a room, truly, but he’d thrown his Hikari a bone and made the mistake of mentioning Yugi, and now the little twit was upstairs wittering away, probably lying on his bed with Alanis Morissette playing in the background, whilst he was sat here trying to get the room to stop spinning.

“Stupid Hikari,” he concluded in a spat mutter.  “Got a job to pay the rent, all legal, and didn’t hit him or break his stuff, and he just pats my head and sods off.  Well fine.  That’s just fine.”

Deciding that he was far too comfortable now to move, Bakura finished the bag of crisps and opened the fridge for something else to help sober him up enough to go see Malik.  Within arm’s reach was orange juice and a cucumber.  With a murderous frown he began consuming both.  “It’s fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more on Theo, read Borath's "Experiment" over at The Other Place. Yami's rendition of Poison was one of the inspirations for this fic.
> 
> I have my reasons for Yugi being... like that. With Yami still around in this verse, he hasn't had the chance to grow up in the way he otherwise would have, and Yami kind of reinforces Yugi's childlike tendencies in the same way that siblings can develop affectations to differentiate themselves. He won't be quite as bad in person, I promise!


	3. Papa’s Got A Brand New Bag

Seto Kaiba slammed the bedroom door behind the hurrying back of the last stylist.  It made quite a bang against the sturdy timber frame.  Thankfully Kaiba did not go in for knick-knacks, or they would have been swept from the shelves as he stormed back across the room.  "Incompetent charlatans," he growled, folding his arms to assess the damage.  Yami sat in Kaiba's desk chair, the desk itself having been transformed into a dressing table for the occasion.  Kaiba's eyes locked on Yami's, haughty and judgemental, in the mirror.

"You might be stuck with the hair," Kaiba finally pronounced sentence.  "If we try to dye it again it'll go green, and trust me, you don't want that."  Yami's once-tricoloured hair was a monochrome shadow of its former glory, the pointed bangs softened and brushed to one side to wave slightly around his face.  Kaiba eyed with disgust the pink headband the youngest stylist had tried to team with it, claiming it brought out the colour of Yami's eyes.  The kohl did work well, Kaiba admitted, but "emo" wasn't going to work as a hook for the Thieves.  Checking out Yami's outfit again, he decided to hunt down whoever decided to fit a collar and striped tie to a t-shirt and have them ritually sterilised for the good of humanity.

Looking up from the portable lightbulb-bordered mirror, Yami quirked an elegant brow.  “Cutting would have been more detrimental, Kaiba.  I can live with these colours if you think they better suit the band’s image.”  

He couldn’t quite see why the taller man was spitting venom - he thought the army of impeccable men had done an excellent job, and it made sense for his image to be influenced by their first audience.

Touching the dark smudges about his eyes light enough so as not to disturb them, his reflection showed a thin, rueful smile. “I can see why Malik was so attached to this style.”

Kaiba headed to the two racks of clothes hung neatly on portable rails in sharp contrast to the discarded piles strewn on the bed.  He flicked in disbelief past the dress made of bubble-wrap.  Start with the classics, he decided, pulling out a pair of stonewashed denim jeans, a plain white t-shirt and a black leather jacket.  He'd probably still insist on wearing the dog collar.  "Try these."  He thrust the stash at Yami.

Rolling the chair back from the desk a little, Yami considered the pile of fabrics in his lap.  It was a large step away from what he would have chosen to wear, but it wasn’t packing material either.  Oblivious to any discomfort on Kaiba’s part, and entirely used to being dressed by and in front of others, the once-Pharaoh began undoing the multiple buckles across his torso so that he could get his shirt off.  “Are you sure this is the right ‘look’ for Theo, Kaiba?  My understanding was that military uniforms were more apt.”

“We’re playing to the crowd, not joining it.”  Kaiba headed back to the racks, flicking through impatiently, and trying to ignore that his long-time rival was currently stripping in his, Kaiba’s, own bedroom.  He’d dressed Mokuba plenty of times before.  Why should this be any different?  Pausing in his frantic search, he listened to the clink of release from each buckle, waiting for the whispering of the shirt being pulled over Yami’s head.  He was interested in what lay in Yami’s mind, not under his clothes.  He hadn’t spent the audition captivated by Yami’s every move.  This was an uncomfortable avenue of thought to be pursuing.  “Are you done yet?” he snapped, risking a sidelong glance toward the desk.

“You have absolutely,” Yami murmured as he began pulling his trousers off behind the desk (‘Slipping’ them off simply wasn’t an option), “no patience, Kaiba.”  A few more seconds and a short, blessedly unseen hop later and the jeans were on. 

Yami considered himself in the small mirror with a frown, tugging a little at the white shirt that, whilst fitted, practically hung off him.  Or it seemed to, anyway.  “I don’t like it,” he announced as a signal for Kaiba to offer (as if there’d be any chance he wouldn’t) his opinion.

It took all of half a second for Kaiba to realise the outfit was all wrong.  Yami looked utterly lost in the garb of a clean-cut blues rocker, his poise and grace muffled by the baggy attire.  “Not a chance,” he stated flatly.  He gestured towards the rack.  “Anything take your fancy, then?”

Abandoning the most outlandish costume pieces that the stylists had had rejected by Gaga herself (only the best in the world, in Kaiba’s books, would do for this venture), Yami foraged until a flash of royal purple caught his eye.  It was an awful thing to admit to, but he simply wasn’t used to choosing his own clothes - and certainly not whilst presented with this sheer range of choice.  In Egypt he’d been dressed, and in the Puzzle he ultimately wore whatever Yugi was wearing.  No wonder Bakura had paired him off with Kaiba for this.  As much as he hated to admit it, even privately, he did need Kaiba’s help.

Holding up the tight purple jeans, he made a soft ‘hmm’ to Kaiba for his verdict. 

Kaiba scanned the jeans, studying them carefully.  They wouldn’t have been his choice, but then Yami couldn’t pull off Kaiba’s style, or so Kaiba liked to believe.  They might look better on, he considered.  Nodding, he pulled out a skinny-fit black shirt, reaching down to the shoe rack for a pair of checked Converse.  “Try them,” he ordered, wondering whether a crushed-velvet jacket over the top would be a step too far.

Once again, Yami showed no hesitation in swapping one shirt for another before Kaiba turned his back.  The jeans were a bit more of a problem, however, giving even less than leather did.  Once they were done up, he found he couldn’t actually kneel to try on the shoes.  “By Ra, I don’t think I could eat in these,” he muttered, padding out from around the desk in socks.  “Why is everything here too large or so tight that I’m going to need help if I’ve had a glass of water?”

Kaiba could practically hear the squeaks as Yami moved.  That wouldn’t be good for rock posturing.  “Well, this looks about your size,” he smirked, pulling out a black dress with too many frills and ribbons, complete with lace petticoats.  “I hear the effeminate look is back.  We’ll get you some purple nail polish, some platform wedges, and some harajuku girls to back you up.  Bakura will probably try to eat them once we’ve finished the first gig, but we can deal with that.  Pointing him at the nearest 24 hour steakhouse should work.”  He returned to the rack, looking for a serious suggestion.

Ruffled, Yami folded his arms with a tight jaw.  He felt heat rise up his neck and cursed having a solid body with its uncontrollable ability to flush.   “Don’t mock me for this, Kaiba.  I’m doing my best, and I didn’t allow Bakura to pair me with you for my own humiliation.  This is in your interest as much as mine.”

In Kaiba’s view, a point conceded in such a way was a point scored in Kaiba’s favour, and one would do for now given that it appeared he had control.  “Oh, calm down,” he snapped, looking down at Yami and wondering how he managed to retain an air of regal indignation in those ridiculous trousers.  “Do you think I’m going to let you go out there and reflect badly on me?  Let’s try again.  I think we can work with the leather trousers, if you find them comfortable?”  He selected a black silk button-down, rooting through a box on the floor for some simple silver jewellery.  Ordinarily all those different kinds of shiny would be a fashion crime, but on stage overdressing might work in their favour, particularly in Theo.  “You might be a bit warm under the lights.”

It was a small show of concern for his wellbeing, projected as a statement as it was, and it caught Yami a little.  He considered the taller man’s neutral expression as he held the new clothes, finally taking them with a softer voice than he would have liked.  “Thank you.”

Considering the fabric and jewelery over his arm, still warm from Kaiba’s hands, he had to blink out an unexpected reverie.  “Have you any idea what Bakura has planned for us?  I know as _Thieves_ we’ll be singing covers, but dancing?  A record contract?  I can’t tell just how seriously he’s taking this.  To be honest, I went to the audition out of curiosity.”

“I don’t think he’s thought beyond the live aspect,” Kaiba answered, rifling through the wardrobe for more options for Yami, or inspiration for his own image, but mainly to keep his hands busy.  “I’ve got Mokuba looking into the rights issues on releasing covers.  KaibaCorp has its own label for game soundtracks, and I’m sure we could extend that aspect of the business if _Thieves_ takes off.”  His own chattiness surprised him, but Yami was a business partner now, of sorts, and maybe that was why he was beginning to feel comfortable in the Pharoah’s presence.  “As for dancing, I should imagine that’s up to you, as our frontman.”  He quirked an eyebrow inquisitively.

Yami coughed a laugh despite himself, one slender hand moving to touch the back of his neck.  “I’m afraid that what you saw at the audition was as far as my skills go in terms of dancing.  I may need to speak to Anzu about that.”

“Don’t.”  Kaiba recalled with displeasure Anzu’s inelegant cavorting at the auditions.  “You’d be better off just watching some Van Halen music videos.”  Struck by the thought, he brushed past Yami to reach his monogrammed laptop.  The desk being covered in various powders and lotions Kaiba didn’t want anywhere near his precious electronics, he settled for clearing a space on the bed.  He woke up the laptop, hitting Youtube to search for great live performances.  “We’ll keep it simple to start with.”  He turned the laptop around to face Yami.  “The Axl Rose ‘snake’.”  On screen, the singer was making a curious undulating motion with his lower body, accented by the swing of the microphone stand.

Yami studied the video for a few seconds before turning for Kaiba’s scrutiny and imitating the undulation as best he could.  This vein continued for several hours, wardrobe forgotten, and it was only when Yami left did he realize how utterly comfortable he’d been with the CEO’s eyes on him constantly.  It left a strange feeling in his gut, one he couldn’t quite discern, though he was sure that Kaiba hadn’t been affected the same way.


	4. Out of the Frying Pan

The house was quiet, with Ryou downstairs enjoying this rare state and Bakura ensconced in his room - where he had been for over an hour.  The peace ended abruptly with a muffled _bang_ from behind the Ring spirit’s door.  An acrid, burnt smell followed him out of the closet, and he closed the wooden door on the Shadow Realm with a vicious kick, his hands held up and trembling.  His eyes watering from more than just the smoke, Bakura slumped down against the door and banged his head against the wood.  “Hikari!”

The sound of shoeless feet came padding up the stairs, Ryou’s white-framed face peering nervously down the corridor towards the source of the shout.  Bakura shouting for him usually meant he was in for a tough time, but it didn’t look like Bakura was in a position to do him much harm this time.  Ryou hurried over, kneeling down beside the injured man.  Concern showed itself unbidden in his wide brown eyes.  “What happened, Bakura?”  He had been happy to hand that name over to the spirit on his attaining a body of his own.  ‘Hikari’ was a good enough nickname for him, and a marked improvement on ‘Yadonushi’.  Cute, even, he sometimes thought.

Even with Ryou kneeling well into what he’d define as his personal space, Bakura found that he couldn’t look away from his blistering hands.  He’d experienced pain more times than he cared to remember in Shadow Games as a non-corporeal entity, but that had always felt unfocused and dull.  Since getting a physical body again, he’d scuffed his knees a few times and damn near broken a toe kicking a door in.  But this piercing, relentless sensation was something else entirely.

To Ryou’s question, he shook his head a little.  “Did something stupid.”  A beat, and when he wasn’t immediately tended to, Bakura growled through his teeth and clamped his eyes shut.  That he felt moisture leak out and down his cheeks didn’t help his mood.  “Ra’s sake, Ryou, stop staring and do something.”

Ryou blinked, snapping out of his daze at the realisation that Bakura actually seemed to need him for a change.  Looking down at Bakura’s hands, he could see the skin starting to pucker in angry pink weals.  Recognising the burns, he heaved Bakura to a standing position with an arm around his back, wondering how he managed to pack so much weight into the slight frame.  It must be all that raw meat, he mused, guiding Bakura in to the bathroom and setting him down to sit on the edge of the bath.  He turned the cold water on full in the basin, rolling up Bakura’s shirt sleeves and wondering at the pain he must be in as he noted the burn marks extending half way up his wrists.  “Something stupid?  That doesn’t sound like you,” he smiled, trying to distract his yami.  He reached out an index finger to wipe away the tears, as he had been used to doing for his sister years ago.

Bakura flinched away from the touch with a murderous glare, not wanting any attention drawn to the fact that his eyes would just not stop watering.  At least Ryou wasn’t saying anything about it, he conceded.  Aside from the thinly veiled sarcasm.  “Yeah, well,” he finally murmured, considering his twitching hands again with a wince.  Even with Shadow Magic it would take a few days for the wounds to heal.  He could only hope that it would be in time for Theo.  “At least I didn’t burn the house down.”

“Yes, about that...” Ryou indicated for Bakura to place his hands under the running water, not willing to risk touching him again.  He was, however, going to have to broach the subject of how exactly the spirit had managed to inflict such harm upon himself, and what exactly Ryou was going to find behind the closet door.  He breathed deeply, aiming for his meekest voice, trying to keep any kind of inflection out of his words.  “Can you tell me what happened?  Do I need to call the fire brigade?”

The first few seconds under the cold tap hurt, but then gave way to blissful relief.  Bakura released the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, turning his hands under the water as Ryou indicated.  “No, it’s fine.  I was...”  He hesitated before shaking his head and withdrawing his stiff hands from the water.  Leaving was his reflexive way of dealing with conversations he didn’t want to have.  Immediately, however, the pain blazed back in crescendo and he put his hands back with a hiss, deciding that he needed the distraction even if it did cost some pride.  “I watched some old music videos for inspiration for the _Thieves_ and tried putting a firework on my guitar.  It backfired.”  He flicked his hands demonstrable.  “Literally.”

Trusting that the house wasn’t in any immediate danger, and leaving the investigation of the firework-damaged closet for some later, Bakura-free date, Ryou examined Bakura’s hands under the flow of the water.  The colour wasn’t fading fast enough for his liking.  “You’ll have to stay under the water for a while longer, I’m afraid.  I’d like to take you to hospital, but...”  That wasn’t really an option, with Bakura not actually existing in any legal sense of the word.  He sat resignedly down next to Bakura, realising he’d been hovering anxiously and probably doing nothing to calm the spirit.  “I don’t think you’ll be playing guitar for a while, fireworks aside.”  He scuffed a white-socked foot over the tiled floor.  “I’m sorry, I know how much you were looking forward to the gig.”  I was, too, he thought.  “I hope you won’t give up.”

Bakura shrugged, still watching his hands and willing them to change colour.  “I’m not fully mortal, so hopefully this will heal quickly.  In time for Theo.”  He shifted a little, biting the tip of his tongue before finally looking at Ryou properly. This was embarrassing enough already.  “Don’t tell the Pharaoh about this.  Or Kaiba.”  He’d meant for it to come out a threat but, perhaps because of being (temporarily) under his Hikari’s care, it came out as an almost-plea.

Ryou smiled honestly.  “I wouldn’t.”  He didn’t like to discuss Bakura, even with Yugi.  The gang always tried to separate him from the Ring Spirit, and once he was finally free they couldn’t understand why he’d wanted to take back someone who’d hurt him, hurt his friends, who at best tolerated him and at worst could kill.  Yet somehow Ryou felt a kinship with the three-thousand-year-old tomb robber, as ridiculous as that seemed, and wanted to help the spirit overcome his grief and learn to live in this new body.  Yugi always talked about seeing the good in people, yet he couldn’t see how protective Bakura had been towards his host at times.  Admittedly, Bakura had needed Ryou to exist, but maybe Bakura might learn that Ryou could be just as useful to him in more pedestrian ways.  Such as, apparently, nursemaid.

Ryou leaned just a little so their shoulders touched.  “I think I should have some aloe vera or something,” he said, before getting up to search the mirrored cabinet for the first aid kit.  Aloe vera, check; surgical gauze, check.  “I can dress it for you, if you’ll let me?”  He looked inquisitively back towards the bath.

The Ring spirit was pointedly not looking at Ryou, and his shoulders slumped a little in defeat when he nodded fractionally.  When the much younger man began gathering the supplies, Bakura decided that he wanted to regain some control of the situation.  “Then I want a cigarette.”

Ryou pursed his lips.  “I really don’t think...”  From the look on Bakura’s face, now was not the time for this discussion.  He sighed.  “Bandage first, cigarette later.  You can’t get smoke and ash mixed in there.”  He indicated to Bakura to remove his hands from the basin, washing his own before picking up the ointment.  “This is going to sting, I’m afraid.”  A small squeeze of the tube onto his finger, and he began to cautiously smooth it over the burns on Bakura’s right hand.

That sounded like a challenge to Bakura’s ears, and he steeled himself on the edge of the bath.  The fluid hurt in a different way to the burn had, but not less.  He fidgeted with pursed lips, watching the slender fingers working the ointment into his hand with hypnotizing gentleness.  Everything that his Hikari did was gentle and quiet, no matter how much he screamed and banged around.  It irritated him largely because he didn’t understand it.  When the quiet had stretched out to an uncomfortable length, he scowled up through his bangs.  “You’re an idiot,” he muttered flatly.  “Why’re you doing this?”

“Doing what?” Ryou said absently, setting aside the ointment to begin wrapping the gauze around Bakura’s hand, taking care to space each finger with extra gauze.  “First aid?  I guess I just had to learn, with my father being away so often.”

Once again, the desire to escape this emotionally disorientating situation swelled again, but Ryou hadn’t finished one hand, and both were burnt.  On the bright side, it was effectively distracting from the pain.  But he was stuck, and Bakura knew better than to stab the camel he was riding.  “First aid on me, you dolt.” The gauze caught and he jerked on reflex with a hiss, though let the other continue to treat him.  “Would have thought you’d be happy with me not being able to throttle you.  Or anything else.”

“Oh, I should imagine it will still hurt to use your hands for a while,” Ryou beamed innocently.  He continued to wrap all the way up Bakura’s wrist, securing the gauze with a safety pin and turning the hand over to check the burned surface was totally covered.  Satisfied, he turned his attention to the other hand, commencing with the lotion.  “But you’re hurt.  I’d do the same for any of my friends.”

That made Bakura snort a laugh, which helped to cover a flinch when the lotion made burning contact with his blistered skin.  “I’m not your friend.  Yadonushi to landlord to nursemaid...”  He shook his head a little, finding that the pain was making him feel more exposed to thoughts that had been troubling him ever since it had become apparent that this solid body was here to stay. 

Before, no matter how he treated Ryou, Ryou simply couldn’t get rid of him, and Bakura could roam utterly free despite whatever his host might think.  Now he had a lot to lose - now he needed food and shelter, of which his possible list of sources for was incredibly short.  Much as he hated to admit it, until _Thieves_ began to generate a stable income, he was wholly dependent on Ryou’s charity.  Which meant he needed to be nicer to him, even if that necessity did make him want to throttle him.

Examining the bandaging on his other hand as a distraction whilst Ryou continued working, he spoke to the fabric more than his hikari.  “Thanks.  For not being...”  ‘Like me’ had been on his tongue and immediately stifled - he’d never apologised for who he was before, and he wasn’t about to start now.  Bakura cleared his throat and forced himself to meet Ryou’s soft gaze.  “A bakayaro about this.”

“That’s no problem,” Ryou answered automatically, concentrating on bandaging Bakura’s other hand.  “There.  All done.  You can have your cigarette.  Outside,” he added.  House rules still applied.  “Where did you hide them this time?”  He looked reprovingly at the older man.  It wasn’t a habit Ryou approved of at the best of times, and he wished, from personal experience, that Bakura would take better care of the bodies entrusted to his care.

A lazy smile slid across Bakura’s mouth.  “In your room.  Hollowed out your thesaurus last month.”  That was where one of his stashes resided - Ryou didn’t need to know about the teddy bear or plant pot.

Taken aback for an instant, before reminding himself he really shouldn’t be surprised at the sneaking, the invasion of privacy or the desecration of personal property, Ryou summoned his fiercest expression.  “Bakura, honestly.”  It was like living with a three-year-old sometimes.  He sighed.  “Come on, then.  Let’s get them.”

Ryou’s room was far too clean and tidy for a house occupied by two bachelors.  It didn’t take him long to locate the thesaurus on the bookshelf.  His eyes flicked involuntarily back towards Bakura as he noted the carved-out pages on opening the cover.  He took the slim white packet, wondering if Bakura could actually have failed to have read the warnings printed in blocky letters at least as tall as the brand name.  “Did you just add ‘other people’ on to ‘Smoking kills’ in your head?” he asked.

“It makes it look cooler,” Bakura replied flatly, automatically reaching for the packet and then stopping with a frown.  He might as well be wearing boxing gloves between the bandages and the fact that he couldn’t so much as twitch his hands without excruciating pain.  Surely he was being punished.   “Ra’s sake...  You’re going to have to help me with this.”

Ryou’s patience was, if not infinite, at least galactic in scale.  He accompanied Bakura outside, taking a coat to drape across his shoulders against the evening chill, and standing well away from the garage in case of further flammables.  “Where’s your lighter?  In your pocket?”

Grunting an affirmative, Bakura offered his right hip pocket.  Once lit, it was depressingly obvious that Ryou was also going to have to hold the cigarette for him to draw off of.  It wasn’t his night, though he’d always been able to turn a situation to his advantage.  They were being forced to spend a few minutes together, and there was no reason why all the awkwardness should be levelled on his shoulders.  “You coming to Theo?”

“Yes.”  Ryou flushed a little at the thought of setting foot inside that den of iniquity.  At least he’d have company.  “Yugi’s coming too.”  He held the cigarette tentatively, as if Bakura might snap at his fingers.  “Are you all set for it?  I’m sorry I’ve missed your rehearsals.”

Bakura took a long drag and held the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds, finally releasing it in twin clouds from his nose.  “Musically all set.  Kaiba’s working on the Pharoah’s image before then.  Which is hilarious.”

“Hilarious how?”  Ryou asked, curiously.  He wasn’t particularly fond of either of their fashion tastes, he supposed, but he wasn’t used to Bakura expressing opinions this freely around him.  It was sort of exciting, being his confidant, and he wanted to encourage any form of law-abiding behaviour in this seemingly reformed criminal.

A scrutinizing look before Bakura snorted.  “You really are dense.  Kaiba’s playing dress-up with the oblivious twerp he’s been obsessed with for the better part of a decade.  You should’ve seen them at the audition.  It was like Duelist Kingdom all over again.”  He caught the flicker in Ryou’s expression, and decided it was because of the cigarette he was holding hostage that it bothered him.  “You know what I mean.”

“You mean Kaiba threatened sui- ohhh,” Ryou’s eyes widened as much as Bakura’s had had to narrow to get the point across.  “Kaiba and Yami?  You think so?  I’d always thought Yami and Yugi might have had a thing.  They’re so close, and they live together and everything.  But I guess it would be weird, with them looking so similar. It would be sort of like, um, loving yourself I suppose.”  Thinking about what he’d just said, he added a hasty caveat.  “Not that I’ve thought about that sort of thing.”  His cheeks felt hot, and the hand holding the cigarette trembled slightly.  Ryou yelped as a finger accidentally brushed against Bakura’s lip, and resumed looking quietly at the floor.

Frozen, Bakura watched the younger man with a furrowed brow.  His lip tingled from the brief contact, which was weird in isolation, but after that odd speech and now with the sudden staring at the ground again when they’d actually been having a conversation...  He steadied Ryou’s hand with his bandaged ones and took a thoughtful breath through the cigarette, waiting for him to say something else.   Finally, when nothing happened, he dismissed the moment with a huff.  “Not weird - still different souls.  Different people.  But they’re not together.  The Pharaoh’s holding out for a bit more heat and a bit less hero worship.  And it’s not like he’s smart enough to see Kaiba’s looking at him.  Dip probably thinks he’s straight.  So: it’s hilarious.  Can’t wait to see how Theo goes.”

Ryou sighed inwardly, thanking the heavens Bakura had let the stream of consciousness pass without comment.  He tried to relax, but it was hard with his arm constantly raised, and pins and needles beginning to set in.  “How is band practice going?  Is it hard to keep order with such strong personalities?”  Another person might have not minced words, and plumped for “egos”.

Experimenting, Bakura bit the filter of the cigarette and drew it from Ryou’s fingers, inhaling through his teeth.  It worked for a few seconds but then fell abruptly to the ground.  Without missing a beat, Bakura ground out the half-smoked cigarette with the heel of his boot.  “It’s alright.  Everyone’s got their own things to cover, and they’ve -”

The former thief cut himself off with a blink, turning his head to look at an indistinct point rather than at anything.  One of the other lingering effects of the Shadow Magic that had given him this physical mortal coil was that he could sense other Millennium Item spirits, and this was not the one he wanted to see when his hands were mittened.  He looked back to Ryou with hard eyes, the surrounding muscles tight.  “Get rid of him.  If he sees this, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Him?  Him who?”  Ryou glanced, confused, at Bakura.  With stress that evident on his lodger’s face, he hazarded a guess, craning his neck to see down the driveway.  “Yami’s coming over?”

By the time Ryou looked back, Bakura was gone and already lunging up the stairs.  He sent his response as a mental pulse - an unexpected lingering ability, though it was far more difficult to achieve than when he had occupied a Soul Room in the boy’s head.  <Just cover me.>  A grudging pause.  <Keep him away from me and I’ll owe you one.>

I hate when you do that, Ryou thought, thinking better of actually sending the message.  The rumbling purr of a motorcycle engine, combined with Bakura’s uneasiness, gave away who he should expect to saunter up the driveway.  “Malik,” he sighed, picking up the stub of the cigarette and disposing of it in the trash can in the garage.  He’d tried a flowerpot filled with sand in an effort to keep the front of the house presentable, but Bakura remained obstinately untidy.

The quickest way to relieve the youngest Ishtar of his schizophrenically-generated alter ego had been to use the same magics that had divided the Egyptian spirits from their hikaris, making “Yami Malik” a shell-shocked but distinctly individual entity.  Isis had taken the new spirit into her home in the hopes that he could be reformed from his darkly psychotic roots, leaving her brother and Rishid in their own house nearby.  Though Malik was certainly happier for having his mind to himself, the unorthodox procedure had had lasting effects.

It hadn’t seemed to bother Malik that a formal suit wasn’t the best thing to wear on a motorcycle as he kicked down the stand and began to approach the Bakuras’ house.  His long hair had been pulled back into a short ponytail, though his bangs were still wild around his face.  On his back was, quite distinctly, a guitar case.

“Malik.  Hi,” Ryou put on his most ingratiating smile, checking the front door was closed behind him.  “I didn’t know you were coming.  You should have called.”  He moved to help Marik with the guitar case.  “It’s the band that brings you here, then?  I didn’t know you were in Thieves.”

“Yes, I’m on keyboard,” Malik replied brightly, allowing Ryou to take the case and then watching him manhandle it as opposed to helping.  After a beat, he nodded to said case.  “And bass.  Bakura said I could only be in the band if I could play two things.  Damn near killed me trying to play the keyboard with my feet, but Bakura corrected me a few months ago, so it’s okay.”  Satisfied with his explanation, he folded his arms and took a step back to look up the house, half expecting to see the Ring spirit watching from a window.  “What about you?  Backing singer?”

Ryou chuckled.  “No.  I’m not cool enough, apparently.  Maybe if I keep at it I can persuade Bakura that I can make the tea in your dressing room.”  Resting his arms on the top of the guitar case, he returned to the task at hand.  “Anyway, if you were hoping to see Bakura, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.  He’s working on some special effects for the gig and can’t be disturbed.”  It was close enough to the truth that the words came out smoothly.  “I can tell him you called, though, if you’d like?”

Abandoning the windows with a deeply unsubtle sigh,  Malik rested his shoulder against the outside wall.  “Oh, there wouldn’t be a lot of point in that, now, little Ryou.”  Another sigh and he dragged his hand through his hair, spraying his bangs outwards and allowing them to fall and curl back around his face.  “He’s only been talking to me if it’s about the band.”  An indignant sniff.  “I’m not his sex sphinx any more.”

Ryou managed to suppress a nervous giggle at the outrageous pet name, preferring to move on.  He was enjoying being able to sleep uninterrupted and didn’t plan on encouraging Malik’s attentions towards Bakura who, for all that Ryou might concentrate on his good points, wasn’t the best choice of romantic partner for someone recovering from severe mental trauma.  “Well, I’m sorry you had a wasted journey, then.  You can use the garage for practice for a while, if you’d like?”

“No, it’s alright.  I was mostly just dropping off the bass.  I’m not *carrying* my own instrument to Theo, Ra’s sake.”  Malik gave the youth a long look, considering, before absently brushing back a thick curl of white hair.  “See you then.”

Ryou flinched at the unexpected contact.  He wasn’t quite sure what to make of the changes in Malik, but it certainly seemed like he had ideas above his station for a garage band.  As did most of the rest of its members.  “Sure.  Bye, Malik.”  He stood with the guitar case, watching as the Egyptian mounted the bike, noting with dismay the small spots of gravel dust appear on the trouser cuffs as the kick stand released.

<Is he gone?>

One hand raised, the wave visible in the bike’s mirrors, Ryou answered.  <Yes.  It’s safe to come out.>  He carried the guitar case carefully into the garage to stand with the rest of the kit, making sure to lock up afterwards.  <How are you feeling?  Would you like a drink, or some painkillers?> Don’t say both, he prayed silently.

There was a brief silence that, somehow, communicated awkwardness.  Finally: <Actually I need another favour.>

<Sure.  What is it?>  Ryou took off his shoes inside the front door, waiting for an answer which was not forthcoming.  He got half way up the stairs before figuring it out.  <Don’t worry about it.  I’ll be right there.>  A tiny smile flitted across his features.

Bakura was waiting in the hallway, slightly flushed but determinedly hard-eyed.  “I can do the rest, but, just undo my belt.  And never tell anyone.”

“Okay.”  Ryou's voice was soft, trying to provide the reassurance he hadn't known Bakura needed until that day.  His fingers fumbled a little with the belt clasp.  It felt strange to try and undo one from this angle and he managed to poke the prong into a thumb.  It felt stranger to be standing, voluntarily, so close to one who he'd been used to thinking of as his tormentor.  Weird, but something he could get used to.  He went a little further than instructed, cheeks heating as he did so, figuring that to loose the fly button would be difficult with Bakura's oven-mitted hands.  "All done," he announced, looking up and smiling like a pet expecting a reward.

The Ring spirit clearly didn’t know where to look, but re-enforced his policy of never feeling even vaguely humiliated alone.  When he spoke, however, his voice was forced and gruff.  “Didn’t know you were so keen to get into my trousers.  Must be the mittens.”

“I can honestly say you’ve never been as attractive to me as you are right now,” Ryou countered breezily, punctuating with a light tap on Bakura’s nose.  “Now go if you’re going.  I’ll wait right here.”

Bakura’s glare intensified, not welcoming this new spine-originating sense of humour of Ryou’s.  “Go die in a fire.”  It came out with less venom than he’d hoped, in part due to him standing with his trousers undone, bandages around both hands because of (admittedly) his own zealous stupidity, and a mounting urge to pee.  Giving up on the smirking lad barely recognizable as his weak-willed Hikari, the Ring Spirit retreated into the bathroom with as much dignity as he could muster.

Thirty seconds later: “I can’t go with you listening!”

“Heh.”  Well, the civility had been fun while it had lasted.  Ryou stuffed his hands in his pockets and shambled off to his room.  <I’m gone.>


	5. I’m Bringing Sexy Back

Theo was a three-story warehouse that had been converted into a club two years ago, its dark brick exterior betraying nothing of the world inside.  Yami was waiting at the main entrance later to be cordoned off with velvet rope.  The building didn’t look anything special from the outside, but he decided that he couldn’t judge the place at 5 o’clock.  They’d been here all afternoon setting up, and he was to meet the hikaris before the performance and show them around.    He smiled a little to himself, wondering if Yugi would recognize him with his new hair and casual clothes.  Kaiba had decided that ‘re-style’ meant his entire wardrobe, and he now stood in jeans and a white t-shirt with red high-top sneakers to complete the look.  It was both comfortable and uncomfortable.

Yugi was the first of the two to show up, wearing a black home-made “Thieves” t-shirt, a soft white smudge of paint remaining on his neck where he’d forgotten to wash.  With the separation of their bodies, Yugi had finally had a long-overdue growth spurt as his metabolism got used to normal functioning.  His weight, however, hadn’t kept pace, and he bounded eagerly over to Yami in the manner of a baby giraffe.

“I’d better not hug you, I think the paint’s still wet,” Yugi indicated the t-shirt apologetically, smiling at Yami.  “You look great though, mou hitori no boku!  I haven’t seen you in a week and I was expecting... well, I don’t know what, but with Kaiba involved, something more fancy.  I’m super excited!  How’s everything going so far?”  Yugi clung on to Yami’s arm as the verbal torrent abated.

Yami gave his Hikari an indulgent smile, inwardly surprised at how overwhelming Yugi’s endless enthusiasm could be after a week’s break.  “Well Aibou, the stage is built and the lighting is just about set up.  Kaiba’s... platform, is being connected now.”  He sighed a little as he relived the ongoing exasperation that had been Kaiba’s Need To Control Otherwise It Won’t Be Right all day.  The last major performer in _Thieves_ had been of little reassurance, and he was dimly expecting the whole thing to go up in an explosion of failure when they actually tried to work together in front of an audience. “Bakura’s been drunk all afternoon, claiming it’s ‘medicinal’.  Though, I suppose even feigning an excuse for his behaviour is an improvement for him.”

Yugi gave Yami a reassuring smile.  “Well, you know what they say - bad rehearsal, good show.”  He’d picked that one up from Anzu.  He’d asked her if she wanted to come tonight, but she had a headache.  “Oh!  There’s Bakura - I mean Ryou.”  He let go of Yami, somewhat reluctantly.

The other hikari had just come into view around the corner, presenting the appearance of a librarian or public schoolboy in his blue shirt and cream v-neck jumper.  It wasn’t ideal moshpit wear, but Bakura had finally caved and agreed to let Ryou watch the gig from backstage, possibly out of fear that Ryou would blow his yami’s cool if he admitted knowing Bakura to the crowd.  Ryou waved on spotting the others.  “Hello, guys.”

Yami cast a quick eye over Ryou’s clothing, concluding that it only served to make Bakura’s stage outfit even more satanic.  “I’m glad you could come,” he replied sincerely, motioning towards the heavy door leading inside.  “Would you like to see the stage?”

Yugi, as he’d expected, tore off ahead only to wait with barely-contained excitement a few paces ahead of them when he realised he didn’t know where to go.  It afforded Yami the opportunity to murmur, unheard, to Ryou, “It would be appreciated if you could talk to your kage - at this rate he won’t know how to hold a guitar, let alone play it.”  

Ryou nodded.  “If you can point me in the right direction, I’ll talk to him now.”  There’d be plenty of time to see the stage later, and he’d just get under everyone’s feet.  And Yugi looked desperate to spend some time with Yami.  They’d need to catch up later, it had been a while since he’d properly talked to his old friend.

Yami hummed a thanks before motioning down the corridor.  They’d come in the back way to the club, leading to the backstage areas and storage rooms.  Their communal dressing room was at the far end, the entrance to the stage almost adjacent on the opposite side of the hall.  When Ryou walked away, Yami found his hikari standing close again.  “Do you like what Kaiba’s done?”

“Mm-hmm!”  There was an edge in Yugi’s voice, a kind of nervousness.  Yugi linked an arm into Yami’s, staring up at the spiked hairstyle that now looked so unfamiliar in black and white.  “You don’t look like me any more.  You’re your own you.  If you know what I mean.”  He looked around wide-eyed, searching for a change of subject, not entirely comfortable with the way his mind was interpreting the whole venture.  “Can I see the stage?”

The foreign note in Yugi’s voice caused Yami to frown, though he nodded to the request without mentioning it.  He knew that this transition from a partnership without any real walls to becoming their own individuals would be more emotionally difficult for Yugi than for himself.  Yugi, as far as he’d come, still believed that he relied on his yami for strength, and believing that he was losing that wasn’t a change he welcomed.  Yami’s great trials, on the other hand, were largely related to being an ancient spirit in a modern world.  Ra help him if he ever tried to get on a bus on his own again.

Figuring that Yugi would have plenty of time to see the stage from the dance ‘pit’ during the show, Yami led them to follow Ryou and took them through the stage door.  It opened behind a curtain to the side of the lower platform, where he’d spent a great deal of time already testing levels and being the lighting ‘dummy’ whilst Bakura drank and Kommandant Kaiba harassed the techs.  Yami had had a few things to say about the silver poles reaching up to the ceiling at either end of the stage, but after inspecting them with curiously specific grips, Bakura had demanded that they stay.

As Yugi was taking in the array of cables, taped marks and periodic swivelling shafts of light, Yami came to stand at his shoulder.  His tone dropped, though not unkindly.  “I hope you understand, Yugi, that whatever this venture brings about, you will still have me.  You’re still my aibou.”

The corners of Yugi’s mouth curved upwards apologetically.  “I know.  I don’t mean to be so selfish.  It just feels so strange, still, not to know what you’re thinking.”  His fingers sought out Yami’s again, solidified where they had once been ethereal, the warmth a poor replacement for the comfort Yugi had obtained from the pharoah’s deep, calm tones resonating inside his mind.  “I’m lonely.”

As soon as Yugi gave voice to the thought, it sounded ridiculous to him.  He had plenty of friends, whether thanks to the puzzle or thanks to him was irrelevant.  He could have lost Yami entirely, but Yami had chosen to stay by his side.  All he was doing was acting like a spoilt child who wouldn’t let others play with his toys.  Like Kaiba used to be, he thought, watching the tall brunette micromanage the stage technicians, sending them scurrying around making minute adjustments to the lighting shining down on the oversized drum riser to ensure that the symbols flashed with just the right intensity when struck.  “I know you have your own life to lead, and I know you wouldn’t intentionally shut me out of it.  Let’s just try to keep in touch, okay?”  Yugi blinked a little moisture away from his eyes.

Yami squeezed the small hand back with a soft smile, murmuring that it could never be otherwise.  His expression turned wry with a breathed laugh.  “Besides, Yugi, permanent as I may be in this world, I’m still very out of place in it.  You’re the one I’ll be coming to for advice when yet another infernal contraption gets the better of me.  Dueling systems I can manage; electric can openers I cannot.  Sometimes I think Bakura’s doing better at modern mortal living than I am.”

A giggle escaped Yugi.  He rested his head momentarily against Yami’s shoulder.  “Speaking of Bakura, do you think it’s alright to have left Ryou with him for so long if he’s drunk?  He says he can handle him, but I don’t know...”  Yugi started back towards the dressing room warily, dragging Yami behind him.

“Since the thief got his own body and Ryou allowed him to keep living in his home,” Yami began evenly, “my confidence in what he can handle is growing every day.”

Inside the modestly-sized dressing room, Bakura had managed to wedge his booted feet between the wall and the back of a sofa that had seen better days and was currently doing sit-ups off of the cushion.  He was shirtless, a little sweaty, and determined to have his chest and stomach fit for the stage.  It was something productive to pass the time with whilst he waited for his fingers to recover from the warm-up playing this morning.  He’d since then passed from too-drunk-to-feel-pain-but-can-still-play to too-drunk-to-operate-a-guitar.  Shadow Magic would alleviate those problems, which left him to focus on looking good whilst Ryou watched.

Breathless from crunching his stomach muscles, the Ring Spirit sagged to flex his reddened hands with a grunt.  “You have any of that aloe cream on you?”

Momentarily startled by the address, Ryou searched the pockets of his jeans for the feel of the tube amid his wallet and house keys.  “I’m sure I remembered it...  Oh!”  He produced the cream, passing it to Bakura to apply, and standing around feeling useless now Bakura could do things for himself again.

Squeezing a liberal amount into hands, Bakura began to rub the viscous cream into his sore flesh.  He didn’t look at Ryou, having been on the verge of thanking him for a moment - doubtless a consequence of his recent dependency.  Dressing, cooking, and anything he might have wanted to do no matter how mundane had been either impossible or painfully difficult without his hikari’s help.  It increased the wondering that had been persisting since he’d taken this body - why Ryou stayed in his life, and was even working to improve it, after their monstrously tumultuous past.

He handed the tube and lid back to Ryou blindly, disentangling himself from the sofa to sit on it properly.  “And you know that if you breathe word of what happened to Kaiba or the Pharoah, textbooks will be written about what I do to you.”

“I know.”  Ryou hid a smile, badly.  Bakura had been reminding him of that threat at least twice daily since the incident that it was almost becoming an in-joke rather than a promise.  “How are you feeling now?”  He was curious how the Shadow Magic worked, leaning over to examine Bakura’s fast-healing hands.  He couldn’t help but cast an eye over Bakura’s taut stomach muscles at the same time.  Even if it was for the sake of looking good, he was glad Bakura was doing something to keep in shape.

“Happy to actually be able to play again,” Bakura mumbled absently as he flexed his hands, pleased to feel that the sharp-stiffness that had plagued each joint was just about gone.  Reaching around to the stand at the end of the sofa, he picked up his Stage Guitar - black and chrome and courtesy of Kaiba.  He placed the strap over his neck and waved to the teen.  “Stay where you are, for a minute.  I need to try something.”

At his hikari’s mute and slightly-bewildered compliance, Bakura stepped toe-to-toe with him and tapped his feet out to a wider stance with the side of one boot.  Satisfied with his position, the Ring Spirit hooked one leg behind Ryou’s so that they were heel to heel, almost entwined, whilst his other foot went wide to the side to support him.  He met wide-eyes with a serious look.  “Do not move whilst I do this.  And if I fall over, it’ll be your fault and will also go into the book about the miserable closing minutes of your pitiful life at my bloody hands.”

Confident of Ryou’s understanding of the peril of the situation, Bakura huffed a breath and flicked a few notes from the guitar, feeling the flex and sting of the strings.  Finally, with his nerve gathered, he began to play the rising ache of the guitar solo from ‘Poison’, one of their big songs for the night.  As he played, he arched his spine back so that his throat was bared, guitar pressed against his midriff whilst he played blindly, and hair coming to rest in thick swirls on the floor.  His thighs trembled with the effort, his calves digging into Ryou’s, and he had to clench his jaw to pull off the last notes whilst forcing himself bodily upright at the last second.  

Nose-to-nose with Ryou again, Bakura held the guitar up and out with a victorious grin.  Now that he knew that he could do that, all he had to do was convince the Pharaoh to let him do it using his leg as a support.

Ryou stood a little awkwardly, not wanting to move his legs in case Bakura tried that again, and almost hoping that he might.  “That was thrilling,” he breathed.  It had been an impressive performance and somehow simple applause didn’t seem worthy of a move that would shortly have hundreds of girls squealing with hormonal delight.  “You’ll knock ‘em dead.  I mean, figuratively,” he clarified.  Bakura seemed to manage with most modern idioms, but sometimes it was best to make sure.

Bakura shifted his feet back, suddenly feeling a little awkward.  Not that he’d been expecting Ryou to be a total post for that manoeuvre, but ‘thrilling’ had caught him.  Grunting an acknowledgment to his hikari’s assessment of his talents, he hesitated on the verge of actual words.  He had to get better at talking to Ryou, for more reasons than to ensure his living comforts for the foreseeable future.  What those reasons were, precisely, made his stomach twist to even begin to contemplate.  

With a lifetime of experience in support of it, he loathed needing anyone for anything.  Other people were weak, unpredictable and often bailed at the crucial moment.  Ryou had been different: the wearer of the Millennium Ring and thus a creature necessary for his basic survival. Necessary, but not particularly cared for.  Since becoming a physical presence in this world again, he’d needed Ryou anew, but it was a different kind of need - far more dependent on Ryou’s good nature and generosity than simply his mind being weak enough to displace so that his body could be puppetted.  It was one of the reasons he wanted to generate his own income and get away, stand on his own two again as he had in his last life.  But Ryou was so damn nice to him, as if he actually wanted him around.

Realising that he’d not spoken for a full minute and had been staring at some spot in the middle distance between the guitar and the floor, Bakura flicked his gaze up to the softer eyes watching him.  “Thanks.”  Anything more was cut off by the door opening at an obscene volume behind him.

Ryou didn’t have time to register the implications of the word before Yugi bounded in, barrelling him away from Bakura with a forceful hug.  “Ryou!  I’ve seen the stage and it looks awesome, I can’t wait!”

Ryou smiled, almost sheepishly, returning the hug with a brief squeeze before attempting to restore some personal space between himself and Yugi’s sphere of exuberant enthusiasm.  “I’m excited too, Yugi.”

Yugi frowned a little at the separation.  “Are you all right, Ryou?  You look down.”  He glanced across to where Yami and Bakura stood poring over a setlist.  “He didn’t do anything to you, did he?”

“No, not at all.”  Ryou put up his hands dismissively.  “Not like that, anyway.  I’m just... I guess I’m a little confused.  And tired.”  He just needed to sit, and think, and process Bakura’s seeming change of heart.  Not that it was unwelcome, just unexpected.

“If you’re sure...” Yugi looked searchingly into Ryou’s eyes.  “You can talk to me, if you need to, you know?”

“I know.”  Ryou’s smile returned in full.  He pondered how lucky he had been that the Ring had brought him to Yugi, its other associations aside.

Bakura talked through the setlist and a change he wanted to make to the order with authority, one finger running down the list of songs that had been circled and annotated in Bakura’s hand atop careful highlighting by Kaiba.  At one song, halfway through their set, he stopped and shook his head a little.  “You can’t do this one, Pharaoh.  I’m better at it and you know it.”

One slender brow arching, Yami considered the power ballad’s title and tried to match Bakura, and everything connected, with its lyrics.  It didn’t match in any logical sense.  “Are you sure?  I thought it was too... slow, for your tastes?”

A grunt and he shrugged one shoulder as if he didn’t care, but Bakura’s tone remained firm.  “There’ve got to be some slower sections, and if they’ve got to be there, then they’ve got to be right.  And vertical sex moves aren’t going to cover for the fact that your voice isn’t right for it.”

Yami smiled a little.  “And yours is?”  At the glare, he held up his hands.  “Alright, if you want to.  I think you’ll bring a certain... quality to it.”

Bakura smirked, considering this to be a clear victory.  “Yeah: excellence.   Just don’t tell Kaiba about it.  He doesn’t need to authorize every change.”

“Just don’t tell me what?”  Having finally satisfied himself with the stage arrangement, the tall drummer had returned to the dressing room.  He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, lips drawn into a taut line.

Without hesitation, Bakura turned to face the significantly taller man with the same smirk still in place.  “Just how many verses the Pharaoh’s going to give you a lapdance during ‘Poison’.”  Satisfied that that answer seemed to have shut him up, albeit irritable, Bakura shouldered past and out of the door.  His hands hurt.  “I’m going to get a drink.”

Eyes closed to keep the long-suffering look private, Yami folded the forgotten set list back up and put it into a back pocket.  “Are we ready?” he asked Kaiba, half expecting a tirade of criticism to be the response with threats to buy the club and to just start over.

Kaiba’s gaze lingered distrustfully on Bakura’s retreating form.  “We’re ready.  Or at least, I’m as ready as I can be with a crew of amateurs.”  His eyes flicked back to Yami, holding steady, including him as a co-conspirator rather than one of the slighted stage technicians.  “Just tell me you remember the words.”


	6. Rock You Like A Hurricane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've introduced some of the GX guys in this chapter, so a few notes for our DM-only readers.
> 
> Timeline: We're assuming GX is set six years after DM ends. Then there's three years of that, and we're setting this fic soon afterwards. So, in this fic, Kaiba and co are mid-twenties; Fubuki Tenjoin and Ryo Marufuji are 21 (same as Mokuba); Jun Manjoume is 19.
> 
> From the start, there is kind of a spoiler for seasons 3/4 of GX, so what are you waiting for - go watch it already! But you should be able to enjoy the chapter without any prior knowledge, and I promise the story will remain DM-centric - I just could't resist the urge to get one of my favourite crossover pairings in here.
> 
> Hell Kaiser Ryo will be referred to either by his nickname or by Ryo-without-a-u purely to distinguish him from Ryou Bakura with-a-u. This is just for convenience and I am aware that it's linguistically wrong. Just roll with it, it's fanon-verse.
> 
> I would also like to apologise to the boys for making such dreadful caricatures of them. I do it out of love.
> 
> As ever, all the good stuff is Borath's.

Hell Kaiser Ryo Marufuji sat alone, in his wheelchair by the window.  Shou had left him there while he went off to duel in the emerging pro league they had started together.  Ryo still wasn’t well enough to duel, Shou said.  But heart problems aside, Ryo never felt better than when he was dueling.  Still, for a man on the cusp of his twenties, there were supposed to be other pleasurable pursuits than card games.  He reached a hand out to the press cutting Fubuki had sent him earlier, marked only with a smiley face and a question mark.  Hell Kaiser curled a lip in disgust.  Seto Kaiba, form a band?  How the mighty had fallen...

He pushed himself to a seated position, wincing with the effort after having been still for so long.  He had suffered worse, though, and damned if he was going to let himself go soft just because his little brother insisted on wrapping him in cotton wool.  He walked stiffly over to the wardrobe, pulling out his trademark black coat in the hope of scaring off any fans.  Although with Fubuki there, he was sure to get a couple of girls thrown his way.  Fubuki did like to share.

The eyeliner was the final touch to his image.  As an afterthought, he took the shock cuffs.  They could come in useful in retaining personal space in a crowded moshpit.

The taxi dropped Hell Kaiser off a few streets away from the club, apologising for the traffic.  Apparently the gig was going to be well-attended.  The ostentatious bronze doors had already opened, and the queue moved fast past the black velvet ropes.  The duelist was assaulted by a hug almost as soon as he entered the dark hall, pounding music threatening to give him a headache already.  “Ryo!” shouted Fubuki in his ear, apparently doing his best to contribute.  “Glad you could make it!”

“Fubuki,” Ryo greeted, trying to regain his composure.  He noticed the thinner man standing behind Fubuki, eyes sullen.  “Manjoume.”  He quirked an eyebrow at Fubuki, having expected Yusuke as part of their usual trio.

Fubuki put a protective arm around the younger man, still shouting to be heard above the music.  “He was rejected by Asuka again, so I’m comforting him.”

“Do you have to keep mentioning that?”  Manjoume looked away, flushed with embarrassment, making no move to escape Fubuki’s embrace.

“I keep telling him I’ll date him if he just asks me,” continued Fubuki cheerfully, causing Manjoume to blush even deeper.

“Come on,” Fubuki persisted, smiling at the unfortunate boy.  “You have to admit I’m at least as gorgeous as my sister.”

“That’s not the point,” Manjoume sighed, lovelorn.    Hell Kaiser tried to ignore the exchange, keeping an eye on the stage where the roadies were currently checking the tuning of a large rack of guitars.

“And I’m more fun.  What would you two do together, anyway?”  Fubuki stroked the few hairs at the back of Manjoume’s neck that grew in the traditional fashion, in accordance with gravity.

“Oh, you know.  Walk, hold hands, take midnight picnics on the beach...” Manjoume was growing dangerously animated.

Fubuki laughed, gently.  “More likely she’d read a book and slap your hand away every time you tried to get near her.  Face it, kid.  You two aren’t destined to be.  I’ve tried my hardest for you but I can’t help that she’s not interested.”  Manjoume’s shoulders slumped, the picture of dejection.

“I’d say your consolation routine needs some work,” Ryo said mildly, crossing his arms.

Fubuki glared at the Kaiser, something few could get away with, before turning his back to Manjoume and rubbing his shoulder gently.  Ryo left the would-be paramour and headed to the bar.  Alcohol might not mix well with his medication, but damn, he needed it if he was going to have to put up with Fubuki working his “love magic” all night.

A dimming of the lights, accompanied by a roar from the crowd, signalled the main entertainment was about to take to the stage.  Drink in hand, Hell Kaiser marched back to the hall to watch.

The voice that came over the club’s multiple speakers was anonymous but clearly used to addressing this kind of crowd.  “Sinners, Theo welcomes you to a spectacular event.  Roger Vivier revolutionised the forbidding opulence of the stiletto with the steel shaft, the Marquis de Sade thrust debauchery into the public eye with the printing press, and Kaiba radically advanced a game of shadows played by ancient kinds through his Duel Disk system, single-handedly turning Duel Monsters into a global phenomena.”

Backstage and to one side, Bakura gave Malik a droll look.  “I don’t recall Kaiba’s self-congratulating introduction having the words ‘shaft’ or ‘de Sade’ in it.”

Malik gave a liquid smirk, hand tightening in anticipation around the neck of the bass.  “I catered to the fans.  Rich boy shouldn’t leave pieces of paper lying around in locked cases if he didn’t want them edited.  Besides, you’re the leader of our band.  I don’t see why *you* didn’t write the stupid intro speech.”

Now Bakura smirked, eyes narrowing to maliciously delighted slits. “Misdirection, Malik.  If Kaiba believes he has the petty victories, then the truly staggering ones are mine.”

Malik’s mouth opened but his reply was drowned out by the announcer and the rising sound of the audience.

“Tonight, you will be witness to the re-imagining of already-legendary songs, from a band set to revolutionise the world of covers.  It is our pleasure, sinners, to bring you ‘The Thieves of Love’!”

As the roars and whoops of the audience grew, drowning out Kaiba’s furious complaints about the creative editing of his grand entrance speech, Mokuba finished doing up the last buckle on the over-elaborate coat and thumped his brother’s back, pushing him towards the stage entrance.  “Go get ‘em, bro!” came the enthusiastic shout.

Kaiba, still muttering about calling the whole thing off, strode onto the darkened stage.  The LED lights studded into the coat cut tiny beams into the roiling dry ice as he mounted the steps to the drum riser.  Seated at the stool, he scanned the audience, trying to make out their faces before the stage lights came on to blind him.  He thought he spotted a few ex-students of his academy in the front row, but thankfully, no Anzu or Jounouchi.

The drummer took a swig of the beer left down by his feet, taking an idle look at the setlist taped there as the rest of the band made their way on stage.  His memory was perfect, of course, but the roadies had insisted, creatures of habit that they were.  He swapped the beer for his drumsticks as Bakura slung a guitar over his shoulders, watching Yami glide over to the centre of the stage.  Malik tested out a few bass notes for tuning.

Once the band looked all set, Kaiba raised the drumsticks over his head, clacking them together eight times to make sure the band had the beat before bringing them crashing down into the opening chords of “It’s My Life”, coloured spotlights flashing in time, highlighting the four men.

Bakura kept his head bowed in, what he knew from practicing in the mirror, a dramatically brooding stance, his feet spread and hips tilted forward to cradle the guitar in his hands.  The lights flashed heat onto him, and he listened to the audience with a smirk as his fingers flew across the chords.  To his right and in the middle of the stage, Yami wasn’t doing half bad.  Not to be upstaged, Bakura swaggered closer to the edge of the stage, keeping the rhythm with his shoulders and swaying hips.  From the shadows cast by his thick bangs, his eyes roved the first rows of warm bodies.

The crowd pressed towards the stage at Bakura’s movement, crushing Hell Kaiser Ryo’s hips against the barrier.  “Why did I let you drag me up here?” he shouted to Fubuki, but Fubuki was too enthralled in the business of the stage, singing along enthusiastically.  Ryo pushed back, elbowing a couple of unfortunate fans in the ribs.

Then something disturbing happened.  Fubuki had stopped singing.  And if he wasn’t singing, or playing his ukulele, that usually meant he was thinking.  And Fubuki thinking meant trouble.  Sure enough, he had his hands braced on the barrier, one leg raised to vault over it.  “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” hissed Ryo.

“Crowd surfing or stage invasion,” answered Fubuki with an innocent smile.  “I haven’t decided which yet.  I figured I’d just see which way the crowd push me.”

The crowd didn’t need to push him - Bakura jerked his head at the young man in invitation.  His eyes, however, locked on his less-than-eager friend.  The ones that resisted were always the most fun, particularly when manipulated into believing that what they had just done was their own idea.  The Ring Spirit slid down to one knee, his stance still wide, his dark jeans tight across all the right places, and grinned smoke and sin.

There was a power, a presence, in front of him that jerked Kaiser’s attention back towards the stage.  Something in the crouched guitarist’s eyes spoke of raw, cruel intent, a look Kaiser had grown used to seeing on recordings of his later duels, but here he found difficulty discerning the context.  Fubuki, however, was no stranger to the idea of sex appeal.  Looking from one to the other with a dawning amusement, he bent to take hold of Kaiser’s legs and hoist him over the barrier.  Kaiser had to stretch out his arms to the stage to avoid faceplanting on the gap between, and found himself being dragged unwillingly into the spotlight.

Bakura didn’t miss a note as he swung his leg out and over the new body suddenly splayed at his feet, quickly pushing the young man over onto his back with the toe of his boot and then slowly, skillfully, dropping to straddle the narrow but pleasantly warm torso.  When the song finally arced up into a blistering guitar solo, he moved his hip in a slow circle and curved his spine back, hair trailing down between his shoulder blades.  The guitar caught the spotlight in such a way as to make it flash and glow.

In the centre of the stage and directly beneath Kaiba on the drumming platform, Yami took the opportunity of having no lyrics to roll his eyes at the shameless display.  It was just like Bakura to try to dominate the limelight, regardless of the fact that they were all on the same ‘side’ this time.  The audience was loving it, true, but Yami felt the warm heat of a challenge flare in his chest.

No one upstaged him.

Kaiba was thinking similar thoughts, isolated from the band atop his mountainous riser.  He’d thought the visual effect, combined with his ferocious attention to the beat, would be enough to keep the audience’s attention on him, but Bakura’s ‘personal touch’ seemed to have the crowd enthralled.  He snorted in disgust, bringing the sticks down harder to vent his frustration.

Lying prone under the weight of the guitarist, there was a tight feeling in Hell Kaiser’s chest that didn’t have anything to do with his medication, or the thumping vibrations of the bass speaker through the floor.  Some sort of physical response to the sinuously animalistic motions of the white-haired man, a proximity alert that asserted the need to snap the two together like a rubber band.  He wanted to give into it, to raise his hands and rake his nails down the aggressor’s back, to fight back until the other had no choice but to subdue him completely, but the guitar solo ended too soon.

His finger tips stinging from their forceful flight across the strings, Bakura straightened to look down at his stage offering with a dark grin.  Sliding the guitar back and holding it out by the neck, he rested his weight fully down and bowed his head close to Hell Kaiser’s face.  He was sharply aware of breath and sweat, his own and well as his victim’s, both so very physical and alive.  Experiencing the world through Ryou’s body had been nothing like this.

“I’ll be seeing you,” he uttered into the dark-blue hair tangling over the man’s ear, tuned to shiver through as a murmur but loud enough to climb over the noise of the audience.  Satisfied by the way the chest between his thighs shifted at that, Bakura rose smoothly from his knees and, with a last eyebrow flick, dismissed Hell Kaiser to cross the stage and join Malik.

Malik’s guitar strap was comparatively long, making his posture seem casual and lazy as he played the bass cords.  When Bakura touched their backs together as rehearsed, he dipped his head back to rest against the former-thief’s shoulder.  “Gone off blondes now, is that it?”

Bakura didn’t answer, didn’t give any indication that he’d even heard.  He simply played into the opening chords of the next song.

Kaiba laid into the deceptively simple beat of ‘Pour Some Sugar On Me’ with a vengeance.  His wealth of talent was being overlooked for cheap sexual tactics.  He flicked his eyes to stage left.  At least Mokuba was smiling at him with the kind of adoration reserved for the rock god he surely was.  He nodded briefly in his younger brother’s direction.

Pushing past Mokuba, Bakura’s conquest was helped off stage by security.  Kaiba finally managed to get a clear view of the man.  The mighty Hell Kaiser, fallen darling of the pro-dueling world... Kaiba would jump at the chance to test his Blue-Eyes against the Kaiser, if the rumours of him passing on his Underworld deck weren’t true.  He made a note to challenge the pro at the afterparty before Bakura got him in his clutches.

The song built towards its climax, the beat intensifying.  Yami gripped the microphone tightly, treating the absurdly innuendo-laden lyrics with a complete seriousness that was more attractive to Kaiba than the blow-dried, stone-washed cheesy smirks of the original.  Yugi was lapping it up, too, off to the right, his eyes wide, smile wider.  Ryou was idiotically bopping up and down next to him.  Kaiba rolled his eyes.

Offstage, Hell Kaiser examined the lanyard he’d been given.  A holographic band logo,  the letters “V.I.P.” in some almost illegible font, and Kaiba Corporation disclaimers all over the reverse, the whole thing would have reeked of overstatement if it wasn’t just a laminated piece of card.  The bouncer had congratulated him, saying it looked like he’d just bought himself a ticket to the afterparty.  He thought about trying to fight his way back to the front of the moshpit to find Fubuki, but decided against it.  The knowing looks and nudges he would get weren’t worth it.  It would be best to just watch from the side, enjoy this privileged view of the charismatic guitarist.  He glanced briefly at the man standing beside him, thick black hair pulled into a ramshackle ponytail, faded suit jacket worn with designer jeans, looking up at the drum podium.  The younger Kaiba brother, he guessed.  Folding his arms, Kaiser turned his attention back to the stage.

After the song disintegrated into a blur of cheers and applause, completely overshadowing the closing notes, every light save for the emergency exits’ soft glows went out with an emphatic ‘whumpf’ from the speakers.  The audience bristled with the sounds of confused and anticipatory murmurs, punctuated by abrupt ‘whoops’ and whistles in the dark.

Yami moved to take his mark from memory alone, but he had caught Kaiba’s face before the lights had gone out.  His old rival was much the same as him, and he’d finally come to a point where he could acknowledge the good and the bad in that.  He didn’t need to imagine their roles reversed to see why Kaiba might be feeling put out for having the crowd’s attention so fully on Bakura after all the work he’d done.  And he was remarkably skilled on the drums.

A smirk peeled across his mouth as he conceived and decided upon the idea in the same instant.  It was only fair that Kaiba have the eyes of the audience drawn up to him, but first he’d have to get them off Bakura.  No mean feat after that little stunt - which only went to prove that the former thief king had neither shame nor scruples.  Yami was not the King of Games for nothing, though, and winning over a crowd was a game in itself.

He was going to make Bakura look like a leper by comparison, and then pour the adoration of the audience into Kaiba’s lap.  And himself a little bit, too.  Kaiba deserved it for reasons that Yami couldn’t quantify, nor did he wish to.  He made a point not to look too deeply into what he thought or felt about Kaiba, having long ago decided that no good could come of it.


	7. Light My Fire

The first, groaned note of Alice Cooper’s ‘Poison’ sang out of Bakura’s fingers and into the dance pit, thrumming singularly in the dark until blue lights brightened the stage enough to see silhouettes.  Yami raised a hand, thumbing the microphone off to move to the one suspended by his jaw, and arched his back with a slow, sinuous twist into the opening rift.  He felt as much as heard Kaiba’s sticks laying into the drums behind and above him, firm and frenzied.

When he started to sing, Yami kept his eyes on the audience, picking out familiar faces as he all but purred the opening lyrics to them.  When the chorus started however, he crossed the stage with more energy, coming to a stop by the steps up to the drumming platform.  He ascended with the start of the next verse, intending to deliver the words to Kaiba directly and see if he could get him to miss a beat.

With the spotlight on him, Yami was all but in silhouette to Kaiba, forcing the drummer’s gaze to the hazy outlines of Yami’s body, as if he really was just a spirit.  It would have made Kaiba’s life a lot easier if he’d just stayed dead and not become the manifestation of sultry pride that was exhaling these lyrics of temptation so uncomfortably close to Kaiba.  He couldn’t yet feel Yami’s warm breath on his ear, but the fact that he was even imagining that was seriously disturbing.

Kaiba watched Yami with carefully masked eyes, using physical memory to feel out the drum beats.  Here, as on the battle ship, the audience was no longer important.  This was a private display, a peacock-strut of a performance, something untameable by Kaiba’s traditional methods, which made him long for it all the more.  Kaiba wasn’t missing beats, he was gaining them, expanding the tricky middle section of the song to compose a suitable reply.

Satisfied that the CEO’s attention was suitably captured, riveted to him, even, Yami returned his gaze to the audience he couldn’t see, their singing underpinning his own voice.   He was in a state of almost utter euphoria, high like he’d only ever been in the exhilarating climaxes of the most challenging duels - when the stakes were high and his own prowess, not fortune, would determine the outcome.  It was only fitting that Kaiba was here.  The feeling and the man were almost inseparable, and it seemed that the brunette relished the excitement of their history and ongoing rivalry as much as he did.

When the song had ended, descending into Malik’s background vocals and Bakura wailing on the guitar to draw out every lusty note, Yami took a moment to flash Kaiba a pleased and appreciate grin.  They were putting on one hell of a show.

A small, tight smile flickered across Kaiba’s face so briefly that only his brother and Yami, the smile’s intended audience, would have noticed it.  It was always a pleasure beyond any other to share a stage with his rival.  Kaiba’s drive to win, to prove himself better, would always be there, but he was almost able to accept that the journey was just as important as the destination.  At least when the scenery was this good.

The noise from the audience was growing with each song, claps and whoops and hollers and screams.  Standing up to scan the audience as the lights returned to play over them, Kaiba stretched his arms out wide: the classic rock messiah, ready to receive the adulation of his disciples.  It was odd to him to hear the throng chanting the name of the band, rather than his adopted surname, but as long as the band understood that he’d made this unit what it was - he had moulded its singer, scheduled its rehearsals, organised the gig - he could be satisfied with that.  Malik and Bakura, with their petty interferences in his carefully choreographed programme, needed to be reminded of their place.

Ego stroked, Kaiba began to lay down the lazy blues beat of the next song, watching Mokuba out of the corner of his eye.  The younger Kaiba brother had jumped off stage to help a fainted girl.  His heart never had hardened in the proper way for a maturing Kaiba.  At least the girl’s friend seemed suitably appreciative of Mokuba’s attentions.

‘Bad to the Bone’ had been Bakura’s suggestion, or his demanding equivalent of a suggestion, for tonight’s playlist.  He felt that it held the right mix of a hip rolling rhythm and wholly appropriate lyrics.  The Thieves were not some generic pop band for tweenage boppers: they were hardcore sexy, smouldering in attitude and heartbreaking in their obscenely cool renderings of classically brilliant music. 

This was the former Thief King’s opinion.  Yami was far more pragmatic, though he could appreciate the effectiveness of the guitars as played by Bakura and Malik in this track.  Descending from where he’d joined Kaiba on his own personal stage upon the stage, Yami returned to his centralised position and switched back to singing through the stand mic. He grasped its head through the lyrics, undulating in slow, controlled waves as Kaiba’s unexpected tutoring session had taught him.

It was Malik who drew Bakura’s attention to the fact that Kaiba was vaguely bored with his contribution to the song.  There simply was not a big part for the drums in Thorogood’s track, and Malik turned his back to the stage once he had caught his former-partner’s attention and yawned towards the CO.  Bakura smirked, finding the idea of further teasing the rich kid after the Pharaoh’s shameless ploy for his attention quite engaging. 

Trailing cables and strumming with exaggerated and sensuous motions, Bakura prowled up the stage.  It was certainly time to pull the proverbial rug out from under Kaiba and show him that he had far less control over this band than he thought he did.

Kaiba was flushed and sweating under the stage lights and heavy coat, small rivulets plastering his bangs to his forehead.  He wasn’t in the best of moods to deal with the guitarist’s incursion into his territory.  Yami’s breaking of the routine had been forgivable, but somehow Bakura sauntering so far over the same line was infuriating rather than intriguing.  Bakura just wasn’t on the same level as Yami.  And besides, Bakura was obscuring Kaiba’s view of the singer’s graceful moves.

“What in hell do you think you’re doing?” Kaiba mouthed over the rhythmic beat, a vehement crash of the cymbals adding weight to his glare.

By way of a response, Bakura gave a pouty smirk before dipping his head in and licking away a rivulet of sweat from the man’s cheekbone and temple.  Drawing back, still playing the easy repetitive chords, Bakura blew a slow kiss and watched for the mortal’s inevitable melting at his unearthly smouldering sexiness.  He wanted ( _needed_ , a dark and treacherous recess in his mind purred in correction) this bit of validation now that the song was winding to a close, and a prick of _something_ at the thought of what was coming next was turning cold in his stomach.

Malik, who had watched the whole thing despite the drum set and their ridiculous elevation impeding his view, shook his head and got down on his knees for his solo.

Kaiba was in danger of beating right through the drum skins, so tense were all his muscles at the unexpected contact.  His natural state was tightly wound, and it wouldn’t take much more for that thin string to snap.  Shooting a murderous look at Bakura’s infuriating grin, his drumsticks spitting venom through the beat, he admitted that teaming up with these fools had been a bad idea from the start.  There was a dependency there, a need to stay close to Yami, that was becoming uncontrollable and leading him to do things he normally wouldn’t.  Like putting up with Bakura’s advances.

He had to admit though, the sensation had been an interesting one.  He was used to Mokuba’s hugs, but apart from that, the majority of the physical contact he could remember in his life was connected with violence - Gozaburo’s study plan, dealing with Pegasus’s goons... That Bakura’s intimate gesture had provoked an almost pleasurable shudder was definitely something to be filed away for further investigation.  He followed the glare with a smirk of his own, just to keep that avenue of study open.

The unspoken, electrical communication held out for several seconds until the lights sank down on their mutual expressions of sexual intrigue.  The audience roared, and the shorter man withdrew from the fortress of metal Kaiba had erected around himself.  In the dark, Bakura’s mouth immediately shifted from a smirk to a hard, determined line.  All the cool-cred he’d accumulated so far was going to be wiped out now, just because he had a much better voice for this track than Yami.  And the _Thieves_ were going to have nothing less than the absolute best performance for every single song, even if Kaiba did throw a bitchfit over it.

Malik moved past him silently to the keyboard as the thief king ghosted to the mic, exchanging an undefinable look in the dim light with their lead singer.  When the soft piano notes began to lilt upwards, just before the lights crept back on, Yami touched a hand to the small of Bakura’s back before stepping away to stand at the background-singer’s mic. 

_Turn around..._

Beneath the dimmed lights, with his elegant hands cradling the mic close, big eyes shut to the witness of the audience, Bakura appeared transformed.  Softened.  He did not look like Ryou, though, but a softened version of himself that carried as strongly in his voice as it did in his stance.  The rough backwards-brush of velvet. Sensuous like black silk wrapped around a blade.

Yami couldn’t stop staring through his refrain.  Barely recognized this creature infusing the lyrics with more matured emotion than he’d ever been able to.

Watching from the side, Yugi was a little miffed that Yami had given up the spotlight for such a powerful song.  He did have to admit, though, that Bakura’s smoke-raw tone suited the ballad.  Ryou seemed to think so too, observed Yugi, seeing the hands clasped under Ryou’s chin as if to keep his jaw from dropping.  The look of awe on his face Yugi had only ever previously seen associated with the release of a new roleplaying rulebook.  He nudged his friend gently, to be rewarded with a faraway smile.

“I had no idea this band would be so therapeutic for him,” Ryou leaned in close to Yugi to get his words across the music.  “I knew there was good in him somewhere.”

“Good acting, anyway,” mumbled Yugi, still unconvinced about Bakura’s reformation.  Ryou shot him the look of a disgruntled schoolteacher before returning to his idolisation of the soul of purity and light that Bakura had previously kept so well hidden.

To Kaiba, staring down at his bandmates, the smoke and spotlights focused on Bakura made him seem less angelic and more surrounded by the pits of hell.  Kaiba hadn’t authorised this change of lineup.  Sure, the song was on the setlist, but only Yami or himself deserved center stage, and yet Yami had just given away this carefully chosen classic heartbreaker, this paean to pain.  His eyes fixed on the back of Bakura’s head, closer by a fraction of an inch with each beat of the bass drum.

The song ended too soon, though it had seemed to last too long to the former Thief singing it.  He could *feel* Kaiba’s gaze boring into him, and knew from instinct alone that it wasn’t with the same heated intensity as it had been before.  The CEO really was going to throw a bitchfit about the unauthorised change - though honestly, that thought had been half his incentive in taking over for this song.  Judging by Yami’s expression when he opened his eyes for the last few refrains, he’d made a good job of it.  The shorter man looked impressed, pleased, but also, somehow, queasily unsettled at the same time.

 _Yes_ , Bakura thought to himself dryly.  _That’s what I thought when I heard the play-back_.  It had unsettled him that he could convey such disgustingly emotional sentiments with intensity through his voice, utterly feigned as it was.  Raw, rasping sexuality - yes, but a love power ballad?  If he hadn’t sounded that good he’d have been disgusted with himself. 

It had gone over well with their audience, it seemed.  They were crooning now, and he soaked it up.  He couldn’t bring up quite the same leering grin, however, and he didn’t want to speculate on why.  The cool lights dimmed down to close, and Bakura stepped away from the mic for Yami to take position for the encore.

“Well done.  That was...  I couldn’t have come close to that.”

Blinking away his surprise at the praise, uttered scant inches from his ear just to be heard over the sounds of the club, Bakura scoffed.  “Of course you couldn’t, Pharaoh.  Thank Ra I’m here, hn?”

Eyes hardening at the slight, Yami’s reply was carefully neutral.  “Indeed - Ryou, particularly, seemed to enjoy your performance.”

Before Bakura could snark a retort, Malik bumped against his side with his guitar hugged close to his chest.  “Our drummer’s fucked off.  You gonna fix that, or what?”

True to Malik’s word, Kaiba had hurled his drumsticks into the audience and marched offstage, returning moments later to place one foot firmly against the drumkit and topple the whole thing off the riser.  One razor-sharp cymbal engraved a semicircle into the stage until it came to rest near Bakura’s foot.  Teeth gritted, Kaiba stormed back behind the curtain, coat-tails flaring behind him.

Bakura rolled his eyes with a muttered litany of curses, most of them idioms that carried no meaning in the modern world.  He looked to Yami as the most obvious choice to lure Kaiba back out, but saw that he was already in a glaring pose of utter stubbornness, apparently trying to will their missing musician back to the stage by scowling with folded arms at the side-stage curtain.

* * *

Kaiba shoulder-barged past Mokuba who had the black-haired fainter on one arm and her auburn-haired friend on the other, evidently giving the pair a tour of the backstage area.  He planned to change, call Isono, get the hell out of there and try to come up with some way to spin the whole sorry affair to the press.

“Excuse me, Junko, Momoe,” Mokuba dropped kisses, Continental-style, on both cheeks of the blushing girls.  “It looks like I’m needed.  Maybe see you at the afterparty.”

“We’d love to,” said Junko, gazing after Mokuba as he hurried after his brother and flashed back a toothy grin.

“Isn’t he dreamy?” sighed Momoe, leaning her head on the other girl’s shoulder.

It wasn’t hard to find Seto.  Mokuba just followed the smell of burning ego.  He knocked on the door, ignoring Seto’s growled threat and entering.  The boundaries that Seto Kaiba set against the world were considerably more permeable to his younger brother, who, despite his growth in stature and accumulation of considerably more street-smarts than Seto, would forever be five years old and vulnerable in his eyes.

Seto was sat at the dressing table, back to the door.  “Hey,” started Mokuba, noting the way Seto’s shoulders were scrunched up almost to his ears.  “It’s just me.”  He moved to lean against the wall, positioning himself so he could see Seto’s face in the mirror.  He watched as Seto registered this, rearranging his expression into carefully cultivated impassivity.  It was clear Seto wasn’t going to open up just yet, so Mokuba continued.  “That went great, I thought.”

“You’re kidding, right?”  Seto rose to the bait.  “After the stunt that albino rent-boy pulled?  He messed up the whole gig with his cheap theatrics.”

“You think?” Mokuba smiled.  “The crowd were loving it.”

“The crowd don’t know what’s good for them,” Seto grumbled.  “If things had gone as planned...”

“Seto,” Mokuba interrupted, admonishing gently.  “You know better than anyone that live shows never go as planned.  Death-T?  Battle City?  It’s the surprises that keep people coming back.  They’re not going to come to a gig if it’s just you guys playing the same songs in the same order in the same way, they’d just buy a CD.  So, if you really plan on making a career out of this, you’ll have to get used to letting the others shake things up a little.”

“He could have asked me first.”

“Are you telling me you wouldn’t have said no?”  Seto returned to sullen silence.  Mokuba tried a different tack.  “So what exactly was your problem?  I’m guessing the speech at the beginning wasn’t yours, but you carried on.  So why the unprofessionalism now?”

“I’m unprofessional?”  Seto span round on his chair, glaring at Mokuba.  It disturbed him that he was now having to look up to do that and he stood, drawing himself up to the full two centimeters he still had over his not-so-little brother.  “I’m not the one assaulting members of the audience and attempting to steal the limelight from those better suited to it.”

“He did a good job.”  Mokuba shrugged.  Bakura’s crooning, setting the atmosphere, had gone a long way towards bagging him not one but two dates for the party.  He looked at his watch.  They’d taken too long, the crowd would be getting restless.  “Is that all you want everyone to remember?”

That had worked, judging by the lowering of Seto’s chin, the indicator of a move from anger to determination.  “I’ll need a new kit set up by the time I reach the stage.”

“Can do.”  Mokuba pulled out his smartphone, pushing his brother forward by the small of his back with the other hand.  “Now go win ‘em back, bro.”

* * *

Back on the stage, Bakura wasn’t letting a little thing like a missing band member throw off his set.  The growing restlessness of the crowd - a restlessness that _wasn’t_ brought about by his smouldering moves, specifically, grated on him, and the irritation he felt towards Kaiba started to morph into full blown hatred.  Storming off after their drummer would cause more problems than it would solve, however, and the Thief King played his fingers idly over the strings as he thought.

One of the tech crew was already setting up Kaiba’s secondary drum kit, so he could come back straight into a song.  If it was one that relied heavily on his instrument, his professional perfectionism would compel him to cut his tantrum short.

A pause.  A smirk.  Bait it would be.

“Malik - you got that theremin effect on the keyboard?”

Looking over to the untouched but set-up instrument to one side of the stage, Malik nodded with a shallow frown.  It smoothed away immediately to be replaced by a grin as the implications of that effect set in.  They’d worked together so often in the past that they’d become experts in unspoken communication, conveying modification to a scheme or plot with a gesture or a look.  Of course, battling monologues and easy insults were still their defaults.

Striding confidently back to the front of the stage, Bakura continued pulling stray notes whilst Malik set the keyboard.  It was enough to quiet the crowd back down to a burbling approval, though Yami still came to stand close to the taller man to speak.  “What in Ra’s name are you doing now?  Someone should bring Kaiba back, or else we all need to leave.”

“Not a chance, Pharaoh,” Bakura grinned back, an edge of steel in his tone and eyes underscoring that there wasn’t a choice in this.  He inhaled through his nose, seemed to settle his shoulders and fidget his weight into a ready stance.  “Now, do you still possess _some_ measure of skill in wielding the Shadow Realm, or am I going to have to do everything myself?”

Yami’s eyes widened, accentuated by the thick eyeliner and the dark framing lift of his hair.  “Bakura, don’t-”

Anything else was cut off by screams and cheers from the pit as Bakura, in fact, _did_.  Over and behind the elaborately layered stage, a thick dark cloud lanced with purple and flickers of obscured light blossomed into being.  Red eyes began to open and slide through the mist, and the silhouette of something much larger loomed in the background. 

Laughing as he hadn’t done in years, Malik flared his fingers across the keys and drew out the strange, discordant notes that were immediately familiar.  They’d played this as a warm-up, as a joke, but never like this.  That they were playing it to an audience was exhilarating, but that Bakura was going so far as to bring in the deadly spectacle of the Shadow Realm was making his chest tight and hands numb from excitement. 

They were going to be legends after this.

Stage right, Yami had retreated back to the mic stand when even shouting in Bakura’s ear wasn’t going to be enough to be heard over the audience.  Not that anything less than physical violence was going to dissuade the Thief King at this point, he knew, and he resolved to at least managing Bakura’s lunacy if he couldn’t stop it.  The other’s control over the Shadow Realm had always exceeded his own, but he was attuned enough to know that what Bakura was doing wasn’t that dangerous.  The view of the realm he’d opened was just that - a window, not a portal, and many of the shapes and movements were glimmers rather than actual monsters.  It looked amazing, the audience was loving it, and it would be a stunning backdrop to this particular song.

But they needed the drums.  They needed Kaiba.  Un-threading the mic from the stand, Yami held it into the air to stoke the energy in the pit, privately willing the other man back.

It took a peculiar narcissism to return to the fray after such an ignominious surrender, and fortunately Kaiba had ego in spades.  The crowd was baying, begging for him to return.  The band were looking up to him, their master and commander, waiting for the authority to proceed.  Kaiba made his grand re-entrance, noting with displeasure the illicit special effects, and studiously ignoring them to sweep his gaze around the room - not that he could see much beyond the first three rows, but for effect - and ending on Yami, giving a tight nod as he took the throne behind the replacement kit.  They were ready to go, and Kaiba added the opening beats to the film theme, the crowd erupting in a near-tuneless singalong.

 _Ghostbusters_ was fun in the garage (and later when Kaiba insisted they rehearse in his newly built studio), but it was phenomenal on the stage now. All of the sinuous sexual atmosphere that Bakura and Yami had doused the gig in was gone - it was pure, feel-good music and dancing.  Neither of the Millennium spirits looked up to Kaiba to see if even he was at least cracking a smile. 

Pacing back and forth across the front of the stage, Bakura kept his head bowed towards the guitar to cover the supernatural light on his face with his hair.  Various ghouls continued to plunge and glide about the peripheries of the Shadow Realm crowd, and in the centre, he drew the Blue-Eyes White Dragon forward to herald Kaiba’s drum solo.  It was pandering to the duelists in the crowd, he told himself, not to the CEO’s ego.  The dragon framed their drummer beautifully, head arched high and wings flared outward, cradling the upper portion of the stage.

Yami noticed Mokuba still hovering just off-stage, and was pleased to see that at least one of the Kaiba brothers was content to be seen having fun in public.  He invited the teen forward with a jerk of his head, jumping with the audience for the _Ghostbusters!_ cry.

Mokuba was captivated by the regal image of the ethereal wings cradling his brother’s pedestal, and wondering if Seto had even noticed the dragon dipping its head down to almost nuzzle him as he drummed frenetically.  As Yami invited him on stage, Mokuba gave a thumbs-up to Seto, hoping he would get the hint.

Absorbed in his performance, knowing he would make this last song the best yet, Kaiba didn’t have a sidelong glance to spare to the special effects display.  There was, however, an unusual feeling, something soft and warm and enveloping.  The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and he channelled the release into the music, throwing himself into the reprise with vigour.

Mokuba was enjoying being a guest star.  One arm round Yami, the other pumping the air enthusiastically, he muddled through the lyrics with heartfelt glee.  With the audience singing along, Ryou and Yugi bopping up and down behind Malik and an overstretched security force trying to keep the front rows from overheating or being crushed, things hadn’t gone at all badly.  The real success would be in encouraging Seto to recognise the fragile roots of friendship that were beginning to take hold among the bandmates.  With Yami, particularly, Mokuba had noticed.

At the front of the stage and rocking his black little heart out, inter-band friendships (indeed, anyone and anything else on the stage/room/universe) were far from Bakura’s thoughts.  He was euphoric, felt like a god, and Ra strike him down if he couldn’t do this for the rest of his suddenly-mortal-short life. 

The song dragged into its ninth refrain before the flashing lights, answering screams from the audience and the dark high that came from using Shadow Magic all went to the Thief King’s head.  Behind Kaiba, the dragon flared its wings out wide with a silent roar.  Bakura swung the guitar strap over his head, took the neck of the instrument and wailed the body of the instrument into the stage as if it had done him immeasurable wrongs.  The guitar shattered, he abandoned the remains to throw both fists into the air and face his adoring fans as the stage finally, abruptly, turned dark.


	8. Gimme Shelter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to those who never give up hope. The occasional message on tumblr has kept this fic in the back of our minds through so many life events.
> 
> It may have taken us over six years, but here it is, a new chapter. We sincerely hope you enjoy it.
> 
> As ever, all the good stuff is Borath's.

Kaiba was dripping with sweat from his exertions on stage.  The first thing he wanted on reaching the dressing room was a towel; the next, a short, needling blast of cold water in the shower; and the last, a few choice words with his bandmates.  However, in line with the general theme of the evening so far, he was to get none of these things. Kaiba stormed up to one of his carefully-selected security guards and grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket.  “What in the hell is going on in there?”

“After-show party, Mr. Kaiba, sir.”  The guard threw a glance back towards the door, from which a pounding beat was emanating.  “Mr. Mokuba authorised it.”

“Did he indeed.”  Kaiba released the guard, throwing open the door to the dressing room and closing it again just as swiftly when he was met by the sound of a dozen shrieking fans.

“They all have passes, sir,” said the guard apologetically.

“And these passes allow them entry to my dressing room?”

The guard shrugged.  “Just following Mr. Mokuba’s orders, sir.”

Kaiba growled and braved the over-excited throng, pushing through clutching hands to find his errant brother.  The room had been barely large enough for the band. Now, between the band, the crew and the groupies, plus a sound system that was far too powerful for the space, it was a sweltering, ear-splitting pit of Hades.

Someone thrust a bottle into Kaiba’s hand.  It was slightly sticky and, on closer inspection, open and mostly empty.  He tossed it to the floor, where it rolled forlornly until it came to rest at a roadie’s feet.  A model type with artfully dark roots and smudged red lipstick shouted something in his ear. It could have been a request for another drink; it could equally have been an invitation to join a demon summoning circle, for all he could hear it. Kaiba shoulder-barged her out of the way and squeezed through, looking for a shock of black hair in need of a haircut and a lecture on overstepping authority.

* * *

Yugi and Ryou perched on the shelf-like table that ran the length of the dressing room walls, behind the speakers in an effort to protect their ears. Ryou had tied his jumper around his neck and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt in concession to the heat, but the fabric still clung uncomfortably around his spine. Yugi perked up as the door to the dressing room opened, stretching up to get a better view.

“Kaiba’s just come in,” he shouted to Ryou. “That’s the last of the band.” His eyes tracked Kaiba across the room, watching him head towards Yami and veer away at the last moment as he spotted Bakura.

“What do you think are the chances of me getting Bakura home at a sensible time tonight?” The adrenaline had kept Ryou going this far, but the environment of the dressing room was starting to make him itch.

Yugi offered Ryou a smile of commiseration. “I don’t think tonight is a night for ‘sensible’.” He’d deliberately kept his distance from Yami, wanting to allow the former spirit space to develop his own friendships, but that was starting to seem like a bad plan in light of Yami’s proximity to Bakura.

“Incredible, more like,” Ryou chewed on his lip thoughtfully. “I know how dedicated he can be, but I wasn’t sure he’d actually pull this off. And with a critical injury, too!”

“You sound almost proud,” Yugi said.

“I am,” said Ryou softly, lost in the cheers as the DJ mixed in the next track.

* * *

“Mokuba.”

The voice cut through the music, as if daring it to drown him out. Mokuba begrudgingly broke eye contact with the cute redhead he’d been cultivating, and pressed her hand in promise of return. His other arm was around the waist of the black-haired girl. He squeezed that too. It was sound business sense to keep options open.

“Mokuba!” Kaiba drummed his fingers impatiently against his crossed arms.

“Yes, Seto?” Mokuba stood forward and smoothed down his rumpled shirt.

“I’m given to understand this invasion is your fault?”

Mokuba grinned, shrugged and gestured to his ears.

“I know you can hear me. Where, exactly, am I supposed to shower?” Kaiba indicated the throng behind. “Am I supposed to wait until the sweat from these bodies forms its own weather system, and attempt to clean myself in the ensuing fetid downpour?”

“This way,” shouted Mokuba, dragging his brother back to the door and up the corridor. The party sounds dimmed as they followed it around corners to a final shabby red door. Mokuba produced a key, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. “Here, Seto. You won’t be disturbed. Just lock it after you and give me the key when you come back.”

Kaiba looked around at the cracked and faded tiles of the shower room, the beige plastic of the squat stool lurking under the halfway detached towel rail, the grimly blackened grout and the ceiling threatening likewise. “It won’t do.”

“Yes it will,” said Mokuba, handing over a bag containing a towel and toiletries, as well as a change of clothes. “You paid to hire the venue, not remodel the bathrooms.”

Kaiba grabbed the bag peremptorily. “Duly noted for next time.”

“Promise me you’ll come by the party when you’re done, Seto? I’ll introduce you to some industry types who could be really helpful for you and Thieves of Love.”

“I’ll think about it,” Kaiba growled, but still Mokuba’s beseeching smile softened his expression.

* * *

Yami had retreated from the overwhelming heat of the dressing room into the hallway, moving further down towards the stage door so that the music wasn’t actually thumping in his chest.  He sipped water and rested his head and shoulders back against the cold wall, shutting his eyes as he tried to will away the muzziness he felt. He’d been on water for half an hour now, but it was only just beginning to help. Despite Bakura’s best efforts at being a bad influence, alcohol was still new to him.

Bakura followed him out minutes later, bearing no pretense with the almost-empty bottle of rum swinging from his arm.  He came to stand against the opposite wall to the Pharaoh and took a long swig, swallowing with a grunted laugh. “Not a bad first gig, hey Atem?"

Opening his eyes to the taller man, Yami’s response was dry.  "'Yami', please.” He dragged a hand down his face, absently wondering if he’d been able to feel his nose before or if the numbness was new.  “You know that isn't my name, though Ra knows what nicknames I'm going to end up with after tonight."

"Yeah, you were a little snake charmer out there," Bakura smirked, swilling the rum about the bottle before setting it aside atop the radiator to his right.  Straightening, he crossed the tiled floor to stand almost on the other spirit's boots, arms folded. 

Yami tipped his head with a scowl, unperturbed by his proximity.  Experience had taught him that the closer to hand Bakura was, the less trouble he could cause.  

Bakura’s hands slid down to his hips, making his posture more of a loom.  He tipped his head back a little so as to sneer down. "And 'Yami' isn't a name.  It's what you were. You can't be called a thing, *Pharaoh*."

"And that's worse than stealing your Hikari's name, *Bakura*?” Yami snapped back, leaning into the goad with teeth bared. “ As if you hadn't already taken enough?"

At the flash of heat, Bakura grinned and pressed his hands against the wall to either side of Yami's head, crowding him backwards.  

Yami’s eyes widened before he regained control, schooling his expression back into something hard and bold.

The fleeting expression was a red flag.  Bakura charged at it joyfully. He grinned and ducked his head, bringing their gazes level.  

"He's just a giver.  Kind of like me. Giving you a chance, a job."  Despite himself, his eyes tracked down, and he recalled the sinuous movements of their lead singer on the stage.  Only now he didn't have a guitar occupying his hands. "Somewhere to put this, delightful new body to use."

Jerking as if burnt, Yami scoffed and made to barge away, but several hours of drinking on top of physical exhaustion left him staggering into Bakura's chest.  He froze with a sharp inhale, suddenly hyper-aware of the other's solid, physical heat. 

Touch wasn't a comparable sensation whilst they had been spirits, and since coming into a mortal body, he'd had very little contact with anyone.  Yugi held his arm, his hand occasionally, but nothing like this full-body press. He felt skin against his skin, a chest rising and falling with breath against his own, hot breath and surprisingly soft hair against his neck.  Without conscious thought, Yami turned his head into that warmth, eyes half-closed, and met a pressure against his mouth that nudged him back into the wall. 

The part of his mind that could have protested, or at least asked what the hell he thought he was doing, was silenced by the sheer overwhelmingness of these new sensations.

Bakura, for his part, didn't have a single trace of internal conflict as stepped in so that their hips were flush, hands moving to cup the Pharaoh's jaw and twine into his hair.  The sensation of kissing, of being kissed, was strange and new and addictive, as if some kind of charge was building that would inevitably lead to somewhere even better. It didn't even matter whose mouth this was, whose lower lip he nipped - just that these touches and sensations didn't stop.  He didn't need to imagine anyone, eyes closed and one hand running firmly down throat and chest to come up beneath the black shirt in search of more skin. 

Yami grabbed his wrist with a start, sense slamming home with enough force to leave him breathless.  When Bakura pulled back his expression was unreadable, and Yami searched the suddenly-foreign eyes for... something.  Some clue as to what the Hell had just happened. 

He swallowed with a click, and it seemed to break the spell. 

Bakura stepped back, his expression deceptively neutral, and picked up the bottle again.  His jaw worked as if to speak, then tightened instead. The smirk he gave was obviously forced - aggressively nonchalant - and he twisted his hips a little as he turned away.

Still resting his weight against the wall, though perhaps now more to actually keep him upright, Yami ran a head across his mouth and through his hair with a shiver.  He watched Bakura walk away, uncertain if he wanted him to look back. Or come back. That… wasn’t something he felt particularly comfortable ruminating upon whilst his head was in this state.

Then, in a disjointed series of realisations, Yami saw Bakura reach the dressing room door and go straight inside because *it had been left open*.  And the occupants weren’t so occupied at all and were looking down the corridor and they had been seen. 

Feeling distinctly sick, he closed his eyes with a groan and thunked his head back against the wall.


End file.
